There's Always New York
by Wordwalker
Summary: Rachel has been finding poems graffitied all around the school and is determined to find out who's behind them.
1. Chapter 1

"Rachel, what are you doing?"

"Look, there's another one here. I'm writing it down. They have to give some clues about who's writing them," Rachel said and saw the other girl roll her eyes, "I know you think I'm just being crazy, Mercedes, but I'd appreciate it if you at least didn't show it to my face. Besides, I know I'm right."

"Yeah, you're right, Rachel, I _do_ think you're being crazy," Mercedes said, rolling her eyes again and walking out of the bathroom, leaving Rachel to continue her scribblings in her little notebook. The diva had taken to carrying a notebook with her wherever she went, and in typical Rachel Berry style, it was bright pink with a gold star embossed into the front cover, and right now it was in her hand, pen flying across the page, copying the writing which was scrawled on the back of the bathroom door. There was something in the handwriting, something in the loop of the 'g's and the join of the 'e's which seemed familiar to Rachel, but she could not put her finger on where she might have seen them before.

The words formed a poem, adorning the otherwise pristine door of the girls' bathroom, the black ink of the permanent marker stark against the white so that if you stared at it too long, the words would imprint themselves on your retinas and appear still as light when you looked away. Everyday Rachel would see the back of that door, and everyday there had been nothing but clean, white paint. Today, there was this:

_Your eyes observe but never see_

_Anything except who you want me to be._

_Who am I really? You'll never understand._

_That's why you won't reach out to hold my hand._

_Sit next to me, behold my life,_

_Enter a reality where loneliness is rife._

A shiver crawled up Rachel's spine, her entire body tingled - there was something about those words. It might have been a short piece, but the words meant something profound to her; it was almost as if she could have written them herself, every sentiment relevant to her own existence. Whoever the poet was, their words seemed to echo the thoughts which ran through her head and bare open the feelings which hid in her heart; the connection left her breathless.

Curiosity crept up on Rachel and grabbed her around the navel, forcing her stomach to clench and her teeth to grind, pushing her to discover the identity of the poet. They were a student, undoubtedly - no teacher would graffiti a bathroom door - and, if the placement of their most recent piece was any indication, they were a girl. But the poet, or the Poet, as Rachel dubbed her, was elusive as ever, a ghost whose presence would have gone completely undetected if not for the words penned in permanent marker in her wake. Not the slightest piece of information was given about the Poet, except in their words, so Rachel, in a bid to identify the Poet amongst her peers, began copying the writings only to spend hours pulling them apart, analysing them, putting them back together and still not advancing any closer to discovering an identity for the mysterious girl.

The poem, marring the door, had only one thing to accompany it, the same thing Rachel had seen written below the other poems: 'Errant'. She assumed this was the Poet's tag, their signature, so to speak. The choice of adjective as a name placed the Poet outside the regular line of thinking, somewhere above the rest of the student body and Rachel, seeking opportunities to meet someone of her own high intellect, was bursting at the seams with curiosity, determination flooding through her to find this Poet. She had the notion that the writer would be an excellent ally to have when it came to writing songs; songs were basically poems with music set to them anyway.

The word 'errant' was in itself a source of curiosity for Rachel; it hardly held any positive connotations, implying deviation from the norm, and in high school, being different was the worst thing a person could be - Rachel knew this from personal experience. She couldn't understand why someone would sign something with a word, which when used in describing them would result in their crucifixion by the rest of the student body at McKinley. Perhaps the Poet didn't really care, perhaps she was so determined to be different, that she wouldn't mind being known as the outcast of the school. There was only one problem with that theory and that involved Rachel not knowing anyone outside of Glee club who was determined to be different - in fact, even those in Glee tried hard not to stand out so much from the rest of the student body. Nobody sprang to mind when Rachel attempted to think of someone who did.

So, Rachel began to keep her notebook with her own copies of Errant's poems. So far, nothing appeared to give her any indication of who she might be, but it didn't lessen her determination - every time she saw a new poem, out came the pink journal, a pen appeared in hand, and the words, inscribed on a wall by one hand were meticulously copied onto a page with another.

Rachel just wanted talk with Errant a while; she, if she was indeed a she, seemed like a very interesting person - deep and artistic, melancholy and fragile - and there was something in that which made the poet endearing to Rachel. Finding the identity, the person behind the poetry, became an obsession for the tiny girl' thoughts about the words, scrawled on walls and tables, the backs of chairs and on lunch trays consumed her mind, filling it to the point of overflowing and she found focusing on anything else a nigh impossible task. Even Glee, her usual focal point, took a back seat to her new addiction; being a star one day in the future was all well and good, but Rachel realised it wasn't going to happen immediately, so losing some time by doing other things was not going to harm her chances.

This latest poem, on the back of the bathroom door, was the fourth such one that Rachel had seen and the sixth she knew of; the other two she hadn't had a chance to see for herself as one was written on a lunch tray, and the other on a chair in a classroom in which Rachel had no lessons. In typical Rachel Berry fashion, she had a plan for seeing those two poems with her own eyes and adding the lines to the pink journal for further analysis. She felt like a forensic scientist or a detective, using nothing but the clues offered to her to find out who was behind the graffiti. And she wasn't the only one.

"Children, as a matter of grave importance, anyone with information about this Errant person leaving graffiti on school property is asked to come forward. Graffiti on school property is an offence and when the perpetrator is caught, he or she will be punished with a suspension. Remember children, if it is not your property, you may not write or draw on it," Principle Figgins had warned just the other day in school assembly. Interest was awakened in the student body and following assembly, that was all anybody had talked about. Rumours spread like wildfire around the school, that it was a student, that it was a teacher, or the most ridiculous one Rachel had heard, that it was a serial killer, telling the school in code that they were planning to attack soon. Within a matter of hours, the buzz had died down. Other pieces of graffiti began appearing - they were the typical types: tags scribbled in permanent marker, slander against fellow students, declarations of love, but none, with the exception of Errant's work was poetry, fortunately for Rachel. Some of the students responsible had been caught, and as promised, were awarded with suspensions. However, Errant's poetry, as evidenced by the piece on the bathroom door continued. In fact, this piece was so fresh that the chemical fumes of the marker still lingered in the air. Rachel desperately strained her memory to see if she'd caught a glimpse of anyone leaving the bathroom just before she and Mercedes had entered. She came up blank. She had been so close, she must have missed the Poet by seconds. She restrained herself from growling in frustration.

A moment after Mercedes had left the bathroom, and as Rachel was copying down the last line, a stall door swung open, its hinges creaking, and a girl with a shock of pink hair emerged, the heels of her boots clicking against the tiles. She shot a glance at the diva before heading to the sink.

"Hello Quinn," Rachel said, jotting down the last word of the poem onto her page. She snapped the journal shut and turned to the other girl.

"Hey Rachel," Quinn replied in kind. Unfamiliarity made the silence which followed the greetings between the two awkward. Rachel was still not used to this girl with pink hair and a look as if she had just walked out of a punk music video. Quinn, so different from the girl Rachel knew only a few months ago, had no interest in building a friendship with the brunette girl. She still had the same face as the Quinn Fabray they all knew, still walked the same way, still had the same voice, and although her hair now had a pink wash through it, blonde was still visible where the dye had started to wash out. But she was so different; where Santana and Brittany had rejoined the cheer squad at the beginning of senior year, Quinn had rebelled against their decision, and opted to mingle with the punks of the school. Rachel was taking this new Quinn with a grain of salt - as changed as she appeared, Rachel knew that some fundamental things of a personality didn't change - she was just waiting to see how much of the Quinn she knew still remained behind the façade of pink.

Rachel turned to leave the restroom and the uncomfortable silence within it when she again caught sight of the graffiti on the door. She reacted as if she'd been slapped in the face, holding a hand to her face and widening her eyes. She turned on her heel to face Quinn again, steeling her stomach against the hope which had arisen there with her realisation.

"Quinn, did you happen to see anyone else in the bathroom just before Mercedes and I came in?" she asked. Quinn gave her a sideways look, one eyebrow raised - a vestige of the old Quinn which still remained. It was the look which without failure made Rachel feel stupid. An explanation came tumbling out of her mouth, an attempt to save face in front of the other girl, "it's just, I'm trying to find out who Errant is - I really like her poems and I think she and I could be really great friends, and maybe she could us write some new songs for Glee club."

"You're so sure it's a girl. Why would you assume that? You don't know the first thing about Errant."

"Well, whoever they are, they've written on the door of the girls' toilets. I can only assume from that that they are a girl," Rachel said, slipping into her defensive mode, seeing the judgemental look in Quinn's hazel eyes.

"That doesn't mean Errant is a girl. It's so easy to get into the bathroom - the only thing stopping anyone going into the one of the opposite sex is propriety. A boy could easily walk in here to write that if he dared."

"I - I suppose you're right," stammered Rachel. How did Quinn always manage to make her feel stupid?

"Besides," Quinn continued, "I know for a fact that there is a piece in the boy's bathroom too." And with that, she closed the tap and brushed past Rachel, making sure to give the brunette a flick of water from her still wet fingers. Rachel didn't even wince - compared to a slushie shower, water was nothing. Anyway, she felt too ill to notice the tiny water droplets. She had been so sure that Errant was a girl, before Quinn came along and crushed that theory beneath the heels of her Doc Martens. Now Rachel didn't know what to think - she couldn't even think. Thoughts fled her mind, leaving her in a haze. She exited the bathroom in Quinn's wake, not even knowing where she was heading, disappointment eating at her stomach.

On the bright side, that brought the total of poems she knew about up to 7.

**A/N: new story! The title won't become significant till later. **


	2. Chapter 2

Luck favoured Rachel at lunch and the disappointment of losing the only lead she thought she had in discovering who Errant was, was expelled by excitement as she gazed at the lunch tray in her hands. There, written roughly in black permanent marker, was another poem. It was as if the universe wanted Rachel to meet Errant.

_I hear your song cascade around me,_

_Creating chaos in the crevices of my heart,_

_Inviting it to break for you._

_I've perfected my armour because of you;_

_I've learnt to tell a flawless lie - _

_So complete I almost believe it myself._

_We march towards the end,_

_Towards the falling dusk,_

_And you're as beautiful as ever_

_With these last rays of light illuminating you._

_Leave this vapid town,_

_Leave this rusty life;_

_Reach for something bigger_

_While I stay behind,_

_Hoping you leave my fragile heart._

_That's what I dream for you;_

_You don't belong here anyway._

_I don't want to pretend anymore. _

This was the poem inked onto the lunch tray and into the beating flesh of Rachel's aching heart. It broke when she read the penultimate line: _You don't belong here anyway_ - she'd heard that before, back when Quinn was still Quinn, when they were both still in love with Finn Hudson. The encounter was ingrained into her memory; every detail stood out as though it had happened moments before, from the dark of the auditorium, to the smell of burning lights and the wafts of Quinn's perfume which had caught Rachel's nose, to the raw emotion which had seared her heart. Any chance of writing a song together was destroyed in that moment. At least Rachel had gotten _Get It Right_ from their clash, even if she had to write it through tears.

The Poet clearly felt the same way Quinn felt about Rachel, to write such a line as that about the person to whom the piece was addressed. For the briefest flicker of a second, Rachel entertained the idea that Quinn was Errant and that this poem was directed at her, but she dismissed the thought - it was too absurd to be true. Besides, Errant was so obviously in love with the person their piece was talking to, and Quinn most certainly did not harbour romantic feelings towards other women.

As she copied the poem down into her little journal, Rachel tried to decipher its meaning. What did 'song' mean? Was it an actual song? Was the Poet a member of Glee? The idea made Rachel's head hurt - no one in Glee could write like that, as far as she knew, unless one of them had been hiding their talent these past two years, and that wouldn't have been fair to the team. So maybe it didn't mean a literal song after all.

What about 'the end'? What kind of end? The end of the year? No, that was a possibility, but what was significant about the end of the year? The end of the school year maybe? Perhaps; Errant could have been a Senior. Of what other kind of end? A morbid thought caught Rachel's imagination and she shuddered; she hoped it didn't mean the end of life.

"Is she at it again?" someone said to her left.

"She's totally obsessed," another voice said.

"I'm not obsessed, I'm just extremely interested," Rachel defended, looking up from her page to see Kurt and Mercedes standing on the other side of the table.

"Girl, you're more obsessed about this than you are about getting the next Glee solo," Mercedes argued, while Kurt nodded.

"Or about Broadway."

"Not true. My love of Broadway is ingrained into my DNA. Finding out who Errant is, is just something specific to this point in time. That doesn't make it any less important," Rachel quickly added, upon seeing her two friends raise their eyebrows at her last comment, "but once I find out who it is, then I won't be obsessed with trying to figure it out."

"You'll be too busy trying to coerce them into writing the songs for Glee," Kurt laughed.

"Why shouldn't I? We would be exploiting our strengths. It would be like using my exceptional vocals at competitions - something to help us win," and both Kurt and Mercedes choked at the implication.

"Oh no you didn't! You know my boy Kurt and I can sing just as well as you," Mercedes said, challenging the brunette girl.

"Better," Kurt added. Rachel rolled her eyes, but didn't rise to the bait; she couldn't be bothered, not today.

"Anyway, you're not going to find out who it is if they don't want to be found out," Kurt continued once he saw that Rachel wasn't biting.

"Why? Do you know something? Kurt, you'd better not know something you're not telling me! Or I swear -"

"Whoa! Easy girl, I don't know anything. I'm just saying that if they were easy to catch, they would have been caught by now. This Errant person's smart - they're not going to risk their identity being discovered. Don't push to far in your search Rachel, or you might scare them off."

"But if I don't push, I'll never find out who they are! I need to know!"

"You're crazy," Mercedes muttered.

"You don't need to know, you want to because you think they'll help launch your career. But what about them, Rachel? What would you give them? If you're going to be taking away their anonymity, then you'd better have something damn good to give them in return," Kurt said, staring at Rachel, who was at a loss for words. She really hadn't thought about what it might mean for the Poet if, no, _when_, she did discover who they were. Kurt and Mercedes were still staring at her, expecting an answer.

"I'll marry them," she blurted, then blushed. She'd marry them? Of all the nonsense to come out of her mouth, it had to be _that_? On the other side of the table, her friends had burst into laughter and the red in her cheeks deepened.

"You'll marry them? Seriously? If you make that a promise, I'll believe you," Kurt snorted between fits of laughter.

"Yeah, we'll make sure to write you a wedding song," Mercedes choked. Mortification angered Rachel, and before she knew it, she was looking them both dead in the eye, promising that if she found out who Errant was, and they agreed to help write the songs for Glee to help them win Nationals, then she would marry them. With triumph, she smirked when she saw that both Mercedes and Kurt's laughter had stopped short; the silence between the trio was deafening.

"But, but what if Errant's a girl?" Kurt spluttered. He hadn't been expecting her to promise; he thought she was just being her overly dramatic self. She flushed again, but held his eyes.

"A promise is a promise."

"Oh, you are in deep crap now," Mercedes chuckled, causing Kurt to glare at her sideways. Rachel was too absorbed in her own world to notice. Did she earnestly agree to the possibility of marrying another woman? What in the name of Barbra did she just get herself into?

"Gay marriage isn't even legal in Ohio," Mercedes continued. Kurt now glared at her directly.

"Well, who's to say that Errant is a girl. They might be a boy, in which case, the issue of gay marriage, though it should be legal in Ohio, and I don't understand why it isn't already, won't be a problem. It will be a normal, _heterosexual_ marriage," Rachel said, "and Kurt, you shouldn't glare at Mercedes. I thought you of all people would advocate my marriage to another woman, if Errant so happens to turn out to be one."

"I don't appreciate that you're taking the issue of gay marriage so lightly. We all know that I won't be able to marry Blaine if we last that long. At least, not in Ohio," he said, taking his eyes of Mercedes and shifting them instead to Rachel. The sentence seemed to come out strained, and for the first time, Rachel wondered if maybe his inability to marry another man in his home state bothered him more than he let on; she knew first hand how hard it would be, if her dads were any indication.

"There's always New York," she offered.

"Yeah, there's always New York," he smiled, but there was a tinge of sadness to it, like he didn't really believe what he was saying.

Lunch after that moment of awkwardness progressed as usual; the atmosphere of tension lifted and the group talked about Glee and their chances at Nationals this year. Out of the corner of her eye, Rachel caught a sight of pink hair, but was oblivious to the hazel eyes which also belonged to the owner, glancing at her as often as they dared.


	3. Chapter 3

Why is it that the simplest of obstacles were sometimes the hardest ones to overcome? It seemed an unfair paradox of existence, and Rachel, standing in the corridor of McKinley, the students milling past in groups of two or three, knew that this obstacle was going to be her greatest one to date in her search for Errant.

It was just a door, really, when you thought about it; just a plank of wood with a handle, suspended on hinges. But it was also a plank of wood suspended on hinges with a plaque indicating that it hid the boys' bathroom from view. And Rachel, in no way, shape, or form, was a boy. It wouldn't stand to have her stride into the boys' bathroom, which she just knew was crawling with all sorts of bacteria likely to give her otherwise sexually transmitted infections, to hunt for a poem written by some rule breaking student. Oh, but she wanted to, she wanted to so very desperately.

She was attracting stares from various students as she stood in the middle of the corridor, glaring at the door; they probably thought she was waiting for Finn, to draw him into another one of their schoolyard screaming matches. A couple of students actually drifted to the side, leaning up against the lockers with the pretence of being deep in conversation, but Rachel knew that they were watching her, waiting for what they thought was going to be another free show of the Rachel Berry and Finn Hudson saga. Her and Finn's quarrels had become infamous throughout the student body, notably because they involved heated arguments which escalated quite quickly into one storming off with fists clenched and the other storming off in the opposite direction whilst bursting into tears. It made Rachel wonder why she was still dating the boy; she liked him, sure, but did that outweigh the pain he put her through? Or was she only with him because he was the only boy who would have her and respect her wish of not having sex until she was 25?

In any case, those students waiting by their lockers for dramatics were going to be disappointed; today, Rachel was not interested in Finn - she was interested in Errant. She sighed. At times like this, she wished she possessed Noah Puckerman's nonchalance towards such things as propriety and that she could simply walk into the boys' lavatory as if she belonged there. It couldn't be that hard; all she had to do was push open the door and step in.

"Are you trying to open the door with your Jedi mind tricks?" someone asked, nudging her shoulder. It was Puck; speak of the devil.

"What makes you think I'd want to open the door to the boys' toilets?" she said, crossing her arms across her chest.

"Seriously? You've been staring at that door for the past five minutes as if it's the last door in the last level of Crash Bandicoot and it's stopping you from finishing the game. But if you're looking for Finn, he's not in there, he's on the football field. What did he do this time?"

"Nothing, actually. I wasn't waiting for him."

"Oh, well, Kurt's just gone to Home Ec."

"That's good. I'm not waiting for him either," Rachel said.

"Well you can't have been waiting for me," Puck frowned, confusion starting to show on his face. There weren't many males Rachel was acquainted with to be waiting outside the toilets for.

"As it happens, Noah, yes, I was waiting for you. There's something I need to talk to you about," Rachel began, brightening as vague tendrils of thought started contracting, shaping themselves into a solid idea in her mind. Linking her elbow with his, she lead him down the corridor. The students against the lockers sighed with disappointment and cleared off once there was no sign of an impending argument.

"As you may know, I've recently been dedicating my free time to finding out who the graffiti poet, Errant, is," and Puck nodded as Rachel spoke; everybody knew about Rachel's latest obsession, "Well, I've heard that there is a piece in the boys' bathrooms, which of course, I would really love to see. So, I need you to help me break into the bathrooms tonight."

"You want me to break into school in the middle of the night so that you can read a poem that somebody wrote on a toilet wall?" Puck said, trying to understand the situation completely. It wasn't anything new for him, but it was strange coming from the brunette girl. Rachel nodded, hoping that he wouldn't say no.

"I'll probably go back to juvie if I get caught," he said, trailing off, but picked up his head with a smile, "but I've broken into this dump a thousand times and never been caught. I'm like the Houdini of this school. Sure, I'll help you out - we Jews gotta stick together."

Reassured, Rachel went on with her day - business as usual. But that day dragged longer than Rachel ever thought possible. Finally, the last bell rang, and she couldn't hurry from class fast enough. She bumped, literally, into Puck in the corridor, who, pretending to pass the other way, shoved a note into her hand. "Remember: Wear black" it said, with another word scribbled beneath it, making Rachel smile a little: "ninjas"; and people thought _she_ was the one who loved theatricality.

The longest school day of her life was followed by the longest afternoon of her life. She and Puck had agreed to meet at Breadsticks at eight. "Rendezvous!" Puck had said, when Rachel said she'd meet him later, "you have to get the terms right! I don't even know what it means, it's like, German or something, but every time they say it on X-Box, the shooters meet up". Again, Rachel couldn't believe that she was called the dramatic one. But eight o'clock it was, and she'd just told her dads she'd be back in a couple of hours because she had a study date, so she sat at a booth at the restaurant, waiting for Puck to keep their rendezvous.

The waitress kept staring at her, sitting there at the lonely table, as though it were improper for her to be taking up a table and not eating; the woman even had the gall to look disbelieving when Rachel explained that she was waiting for her date. But it didn't matter; ten minutes after Rachel sat down, Puck walked in, dressed head to toe in black, from a black beanie, to a black turtleneck, yes, a turtleneck, to black pants and non descript black shoes. When he sat opposite Rachel, also dressed entirely in black, the waitress' eyes narrowed at them, and Rachel had to admit, they did look like they were about to commit some sort of heinous crime, which they were, but it's not like they were actually going to hurt anybody.

"Puck! You look like you're about to rob a store! Was the beanie necessary? Or the backpack?" Rachel whispered across the table, fully aware of the waitress' eyes still trained on them.

"What can I say, babe, I gotta be prepared."

"And the turtleneck?"

"You can't break into a school unless you're dressed like a spy!" he exclaimed. Rachel rolled her eyes at him. He took the theatricality too far sometimes.

"Come on, let's go. The waitress is giving us the evil eye."

"We're not even gonna eat? I thought we were gonna eat first!" the mohawk haired boy complained, but Rachel, already standing, gripped him by the bicep and dragged him out of his seat, forcing him to stumble after her.

"Whoa, easy babe, McKinley ain't going anywhere."

"Not unless he's turned into a zombie," someone said from beside the door as the exited the restaurant.

"Well hey, if it ain't Little Miss Rock n' Roll!" Puck said, grinning at the girl. Quinn, in turn, rolled her eyes at him - that seemed to be the gesture of the night.

"Or maybe we should call you Little Miss Zombie Apocalypse," Rachel sneered, referring to the other girl's comment. She was in a hurry, why did Quinn have to turn up now?

"Maybe we should call _you_ Little Miss Not-So-Squeaky-Clean, especially now since you're breaking into the school," Quinn bit back.

"Oh, you're one to talk, Quinn Fabray. You're the one standing out here smoking!" Rachel said with vehemence, gesturing to the white stick in Quinn's hand. Quinn raised her eyebrow at her.

"You mean this?" she said, raising it up, "are you delusional?"

Rachel reddened, heat creeping up her neck and into her cheeks; Quinn was holding a lollipop - most definitely not a cigarette. She'd done it again; she'd managed to once more make herself look like a fool in front of the other girl. The more she tried to act nonchalant, the more she manage to look like someone who was trying too hard. Rachel couldn't understand what was wrong with her. It was this new Quinn; the pink hair and 'Little Miss Rock n' Roll' attitude jolted Rachel off balance.

"Hey, Zombie Apocalypse, come with," Puck said, jerking his head in the direction of the carpark. Rachel's face reddened further; that's just what she needed, another person to tag along. And Quinn Fabray, nonetheless!

"I don't think that's a good idea. Three people only increases our chances of getting caught. I'm sorry Quinn, but I don't think you should accompany us," she said to the girl, who stared at her for a second before snapping her eyes back up to Puck's.

"Sounds like fun. I'm in."

"Awesome!" he said, bumping fists with her.

"And for the record, 'Little Miss Zombie Apocalypse' is much better than 'Little Miss Rock n' Roll'," she added, in a round about attempt at apologising to Rachel, who was grateful for her trying, only to have it ruined with, "it's more badass."

The night enveloped them as they left Breadsticks, the streets welcoming them as old friends, with open arms. The trio, dressed all in black, melted into the shadows, becoming one with the darkness. Like true delinquents, they walked not on the sidewalks, but in the middle of the road, fearing no cars, as though they owned the place. It was exciting for Rachel, this complete disregard for propriety, for the rules she so strictly obeyed during the daylight hours. It was all so new for her, and the excitement sent adrenaline coursing through her veins. Being bad felt so good.

McKinley, abandoned at night, was no more welcoming than a cemetery, loomed in front of them, the black windows foreboding, but beckoning. Puck led them around the side of the school, into a street where streetlights hadn't been installed, and the darkness swallowed them whole, masking them from any eyes which may have been looking out their windows.

"How do we get in?" Rachel asked.

"Climb, babe," Puck answered, pointing to the fence.

"Good luck getting her to climb that," Quinn said, instantaneously flicking the switch in Rachel from 'terrified at being caught' to 'determined to succeed'.

"Watch me," she said, turning to the fence. She gripped the crosshatch wire somewhere above her head, then jumped, scrambling to find a foothold, but she slipped and her feet hit the ground. Behind her, Quinn chuckled. The sound infuriated Rachel and she jumped again, this time finding a foothold. She pushed, and with much effort, began to climb the metal wire fence. Thankfully, the top of the fence was lined with a pole, which she gripped as she swung a leg over and began her descent on the other side. She was halfway down when she slipped, and slid the rest of the way down, landing in a heap at the bottom.

"You ok?" Puck asked.

"I'm fine. And I'm sure my talent's ok too."

"That line's getting old, Berry," Quinn called, and began climbing the fence herself.

A moment later, Rachel was joined by the pair, both of whom landed with the grace of a cat - a stark contrast to her own crash landing. It seemed she had a lot to practice on.

"You're bleeding," Quinn said, reaching to wipe blood from Rachel's face. The contact surprised Rachel, but she masked it with a wince - it actually did hurt.

"I must have scratched myself when I fell. Great, now I have to find some excuse for why I have a messed up face."

"We can tell them you got into a knife fight," Puck suggested.

"Can we just keep going?"

They reached the door of the school, locking them from their goal, at which point Puck rummaged around in his bag and brought out what looked to Rachel like a giant pair of gardening clippers. He put them to the lock, but Quinn put her hand on his arm, pulling a nailfile out of her back pocket.

"I have a better way," she said, inserting the nailfile into the padlock. Jiggling it around in the lock, Rachel held her breath, releasing it only when it sprang open with a click, and fell into palm of Quinn's hand with a soft thud. "Less messy," the pink haired girl explained.

"Handy, Zombie Apocalypse," Puck nodded in appreciation of the girl's skills, pushing open the door.

The three of them slipped through the doors, slinking into the corridor they were so familiar with. It looked different in the dark - every shadow was deeper, the lack of life making it more ominous. Rachel, never one to rely on someone else for preparedness, took a flashlight out of the back she'd brought with her and shone it down the hall. A second later, two more beams of light joined her first. In unison, they moved forward, their footsteps echoing too loudly off the walls and the lockers, as if the volume had been turned all the way up for the sounds of their movements, but the rest of the world had been put on mute. From beside her, Rachel could hear the sound of Puck's breathing, too loud in her ears, too creepy.

"This way," Quinn said, leading them down another corridor. Squares of silver light patterned the floor, the light of the moon streaming through the unblinded windows. If she wasn't so terrified of being caught doing something illegal, Rachel would have thought it beautiful - this pattern was completely lost during the day. If she'd been a film director, she might have shot some frames of the corridor in all it's moonlit glory for a scene in a horror film.

"Here," Puck whispered. The door, already slightly threatening during the day, was completely terrifying at night. Rachel's irrational fear of the dark, which had been raising the hairs on her neck from the moment they entered the building, escalated; it was the fear all humans got when they were already mildly afraid of something they couldn't see. Having Puck and Quinn there quieted the fears, but she still checked behind her several times before pushing the door open.

The bathroom wasn't as bad as Rachel had expected it to be. It was much cleaner, for a start. In actual fact, it looked exactly like the girls' bathroom, except with urinals lining on wall. The torch light bounced off the white tiles and the urinals, and Rachel could see her face, ghostly white in the mirrors.

"Where is it, Puck?"

"Over here. On the wall."

It was a medium length piece, scrawled in black permanent marker, just like all the rest, slightly above the urinals. Rachel whipped out her notebook and began transcribing.

_Back and forth, back and forth,  
>You play us like a tennis game.<br>Please, don't bother to open your mouth  
>To profess your so called love,<br>If you plan on taking it all back  
>On another desolate day.<br>I'm worth more than the sum of your flaws,  
>I'm worth more than the sum of your fears,<br>I'm worth more, even,  
>Than the sum of your virtues,<br>And we both deserve better  
>Than a wretched boy like you.<br>I hope she sees that it's as false for her  
>As it was for you and I.<br>When you break her heart,  
>Like your eyes promise you will,<br>I'll be there to pick up the shards  
>And make the shattered whole again.<em>

"Honestly Rachel, do you think you're going to find Errant by copying down their poetry? If you stop looking, you'll probably find that they're right in front of you," Quinn said, shining the torch onto the journal as Rachel wrote.

"I believe it brings me one step closer every time. And this way, I get to carry a piece of Errant with me wherever I go," the brunette replied, clutching the notebook to her chest, "I just feel that Errant and I are very much alike. So many of our feelings are the same. This poem, for example, reminds me so much of my feelings for-"

"Finn," Quinn finished. Rachel stared at her. "Me too," the girl shrugged.

"Well, it reminds me of some dude who keeps hurting his best friends over some girl that they both like," Puck said, "and the friend's sick of it."

"That's probably what it is," Rachel sighed. That would make Errant a boy - but which one? She momentarily flirted with the thought that it was Finn, about his relationship with Puck, but for all his song writing skills, the emotions in Errant's poems were not ones that Rachel could believe he harboured. Some, perhaps, but not all. Besides, she definitely could not see Finn sneaking into the girls' lavatories to graffiti the poem that was in there.

"You know Rachel, you could have had Puck or one of the other guys to write this down for you during the day," Quinn said, stating the obvious which Rachel had completely missed. In her desperation to see the poem with her own eyes, she hadn't even considered there being an easier way.

"No way! There's no way I'm gonna sit in here and write down some poem into a pink notebook. My rep's already in the gutter 'cause of Glee. I don't want anyone else thinking I'm another gay dude," Puck exclaimed.

"There's nothing wrong with being gay," Quinn glowered, and Rachel swelled with pride towards the girl. The students of McKinley treated homosexuality as a sin, or took it as a joke and it infuriated her. With two gay dads, the issue was one close to her heart.

"No, I mean I love Kurt and everything, but I can't have the guys questioning my badassery because I'm copying down poems in the toilets. It's weird."

Both girls rolled their eyes and walked out of the restroom, Puck following suit close behind.

"So do you have any ideas about who Errant is? Did the poem help?" asked Quinn.

"Not yet. But I've no doubt that I'm getting closer. I can feel it. They're a boy, I think."

"Maybe," Quinn said, trailing off. Rachel thought she sounded almost disappointed with her response.

"I'll keep collecting the pieces. I'm sure something in them will make it obvious," she finished.

The trio exited the building, leaving behind the foreboding shadows, their mission accomplished, making sure to secure the padlock back into its original position. But Puck, instead of walking the way they came, veered off to the left.

"Noah, where are we going? We came in that way," Rachel called, pointing to her right.

"We're just gonna chill for a little while on the football field. Relax babe, nothing major. It's a nice night out, no point wasting it."

Rachel could find all of thirty eight faults with that statement, but considering what he'd just done for her, didn't argue and trailed behind Puck, the badass, and Quinn, the rebel, hoping they wouldn't get caught illegally being on school grounds. She didn't know how she was going to explain that one to her dads if that happened.

In the darkness, the sounds of cars, whirring past just beyond their line of vision, echoed, bouncing off the bleachers and settling onto the grass of the football field like a blanket, bringing a reassuring thrum of life into the otherwise silent field. The three of them collapsed onto the grass, the strands of their hair catching the glow of the moon, threading the light into their skulls.

"Time for a drink," Puck muttered, fishing around in his backpack, his hand emerging a moment later clutching a bottle of wine. Pulling out the cork, he took a swig, then passed it off to Quinn, who imitated the gesture. Rachel then found herself with the bottle of wine being thrust into her own hands by those of Quinn; cool glass pressed into the palm of her hands, while the tips of her fingers brushed the skin of the other girl's, warm and soft. Sitting there, having broken the law already, Rachel barely hesitated a second before gulping down the red liquid, savouring the flavour before swallowing and having the alcohol scratch the back of her throat as it travelled down her oesophagus. The bottle of wine made several rounds between the trio before the silence among them was broken; by this time, the wine was almost completely consumed and Puck was rummaging for a second bottle; Rachel wasn't even surprised to see that he had another in there. It was Quinn who broke the silence. She was spread out on the grass, propped up against one elbow, the bottle balanced on the grass, her other hand caressing the rim with the tips of fingers, spinning it around on the edge of its base. She had a faraway look in her eyes, as though she was speaking behind the veil of her thoughts.

"Why New York, Rachel?"

"I have one word for you, Quinn Fabray: Broadway. That's always been the reason. I want to sing. I want to be on stage, and I want to do that in New York, on the Broadway stages."

"Why Broadway? Why not the West End in London?"

"That's where my love lies, Quinn. I can't explain."

"Try, Berry," Quinn encouraged, glancing at the diva sideways.

"You wouldn't understand."

"You'd be surprised. Try me, Berry," Quinn reiterated, this time staring at the girl. Her hazel eyes were still slightly clouded over, but as she watched, Rachel saw the hazel clear and focus - focus on her. She dropped her own brown eyes to the grass, picking at it, pulling it up by its roots. Where could she begin without sounding like a zealous freak? There wasn't a way she could explain her need for Broadway without doing so. But feeling the hazel eyes on her, she tried.

"I was weaned on the Broadway classics; they were the first films I watched, the first songs I heard, their lyrics were the first things I learnt to say. All those people, I watched them everyday, and they were so glamorous, so talented and so passionate, I couldn't help but want to be like them. I loved them the way other kids love their teddy bears or their blankets or their dolls. I admired them the way other people admire The Beatles - with this burning love and a desire to be like them. I want so bad to stand on the stages where Barbara stood, raising my voice to the same auditorium; it'd be like interacting with her ghost from when she stood there. Being near greatness makes you great, even if just a little bit. I want people to look at me one day and feel towards me the things I feel towards Barbara; I want to be admired, I want to be known for my talent. I want to be the star of my own show, the one who sets the bar of excellence, the one subsequent performances are always compared to, the one no one can live up to. I want to sing because I love it, and I want to be loved because of it. I wouldn't get that connection to my childhood, to my dreams, to Barbara, if I was anywhere but Broadway. When I stood there in Times Square last year, I knew it - I knew I was home. For the first time in my life, I was home. Do you know what that means?" she said, glancing up to see Quinn gazing off into the distance, eyes glazed over again. Rachel understood that she had listened to every word, that she was processing it; she'd caught the last movement of her head, the end of a nod at the completion of her sentence. She cocked her own head to the side a little and stared at the girl who was staring into her own mind; Quinn felt like New York was home too?

"But you feel that way in Glee, don't you?" Puck asked, passing her the freshly opened wine bottle, which he'd already drunk half of. She took a swig, then handed it back with a shrug of her shoulders.

"Sometimes."

"It's a cage for you. Your wings aren't allowed to spread to their full span, and it kills you," Quinn whispered, causing two pairs of eyes to swivel to her. Puck's brow was creased, eyes confused, but Rachel's were wide, wide open. But Quinn wasn't finished, "We lost at Nationals and you were terrified because you thought nobody noticed you; you felt your dream slipping through your fingers, away, into the void where all dead dreams go. That's why you stopped fighting Finn's advances - you almost gave up because you saw an easier road with him, living in Ohio; another Broadway dreamer who would forget what it was like to sing - and you'd raise a family instead to cure the emptiness that dream left in your heart. But that fire never dies. Not for you, Rachel Berry."

"Oh! Quinn. I… How…?" Rachel stammered, breathless.

"I noticed you, even if nobody else did," Quinn shrugged, then drank the dregs from the first bottle of wine, refusing to look at either Puck or Rachel.

"That's the most I've heard you talk in a long time, Zombie Apocalypse," Puck said.

"Yeah, well, wine makes me chatty."

"It's not just the wine," he muttered under his breath, but loud enough for Quinn to hear. She threw the empty bottle at him, and it bounced off his arm. Rachel couldn't help but wonder at this camaraderie which had sprung up between the pink haired girl and the mohawked boy - he'd been the father of her baby, of course, but as far as Rachel knew, they hadn't ever really been friends. Now, they were quite close, by the looks of things; at least, Puck's comment has flown right over _her_ head.

"Relax, Zombie Apocalypse, I was kidding. Take a joke will you," he said, rolling onto his back and looking at the stars. The two girls emulated his movement, and all three of them were lying there, in the middle of the football field, wine bottles littered around them, staring at the velvet sky. The stars stared back, and a quiet sense of infinity enveloped them all. Rachel traced constellations with her eyes, wishing she could name them as she went, even though she was sure she was making up her own constellations.

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Puck, hands behind his head, eyes closed, chest inflating and deflating with every intake of breath, and somewhere behind her head, Rachel could sense Quinn, as though she were tethered to the girl by some invisible thread of life, as though this night had bound the three of them in some kind of spell, in which they were always aware of one another.

An odd feeling arose in Rachel's chest, spreading down through her torso, and up through to her head, reaching the tips of her fingers and the end of her toes, such as she had only felt once before, in New York; it was love. It was home. It was the feeling she never thought she'd experience whilst still in Lima, but there she was, and she wanted nothing more than to hug Quinn and Puck and tell them how much she loved them, how much, for the first time in her life, she felt that she was at one with herself and the universe, and that it was because of them. A snore punctured the silence, breaking Rachel's thoughts, and both she and Quinn giggled into the dark.

"Puck? Puckerman! Moron!" Quinn loudly whispered at the boy lying prostrate, but none of the names elicited a response. "He's definitely asleep."

"I can see how. He did drink a bottle of wine practically on his own."

"Plus, there's the atmosphere," Quinn added.

"I love this atmosphere."

"Me too."

"It's intimate, without being stifling. It's quiet without being awkward. It's comforting without being oppressive," Rachel stated.

"Rachel?"

"Yeah?"

"You're ruining it."

"Oh. Sorry."

Silence descended once again, broken only by the sounds of cars in the distance, passing occasionally on the road by the field. A mist was starting to set in, tendrils of it snaking their way across the field, winding themselves around the bottom of the bleachers, around the goal post. The night was becoming more picturesque the further it progressed. Scuffling behind her head made Rachel roll over onto her side, to see Quinn taking another bottle of wine out Puck's backpack.

"More wine?" she smiled shyly, holding up the bottle. Rachel nodded and sat up, and Quinn crawled over with the bottle, sitting so close to Rachel that their sides touched.

"I can't believe he had three bottles of wine in there," the brunette said, watching Quinn uncork it.

"It's the only reason he brought that backpack. Trust Puck to see breaking into the school as a chance to have a drink."

"Three bottles though?"

"A bottle for each of us."

"It's like he knew you were coming," Rachel said, pulling the bottle from Quinn's hand and letting the red liquid fill her mouth. The other girl said nothing, but the alcohol was starting to go to Rachel's head and she didn't even notice. She did, however, notice when Quinn put her head onto her shoulder and curled into her side. Rachel wasn't sure how to react, but her body seemed to know, because her arm snaked around Quinn's waist and she instinctively shifted a little to make the pink haired girl more comfortable. The automatic gesture surprised her a little. How did she know to do that? Usually, she was the one who was leaning against someone else, normally Finn, and he never moved to make her more comfortable. In fact, Rachel couldn't help but think that the boy didn't know the first thing about intimacy. Everything the two of them did felt awkward, like two puzzle pieces trying to go together when they didn't quite fit, but Rachel kept putting that down to their size differences. But it was different with Quinn, and Rachel felt the difference immediately - all at once it was more intimate, more comfortable, more natural, even. She didn't think about it too hard; she didn't want to, nor could she even, with the alcohol streaming through her veins. If she remembered it, she would think about it tomorrow.

"Wine," Quinn murmured, reaching out to grab the bottle from Rachel's other hand. She guzzled half the bottle without taking a breath.

"Take it easy, Zombie Apocalypse," Rachel said, taking the bottle back.

"Not you too."

"I thought you liked 'Zombie Apocalypse'. Badass, remember?"

"I do, but when you say it, it's too cute. Not badass at all," Quinn whined.

"It's not my fault that I'm adorable," Rachel teased, prodding the girl with her index finger.

"Yes it is. It's entirely your fault."

"What? How is it?"

"You do it on purpose," Quinn said, poking Rachel back.

"Sometimes."

"Like now?"

"Like now," she nodded.

"I hate you," Quinn growled.

"No you don't," the other girl laughed. She was flirting, she knew she was flirting, and that the other girl was flirting back, and normally, this would have sent her running a thousand miles in the opposite direction, but tonight, with the alcohol in their blood, the stars winking at them from above, and the companionship brought about by doing something illegal, it felt right.

"No. I don't. Not at all," said Quinn, and she snuggled closer. Overwhelmed by a sudden lack of inhibitions, Rachel planted a kiss on the top of Quinn's pink head. Both of them froze as realisation dawned over them, Rachel's sobriety returning in a matter of seconds. Quinn looked up at her, still curled into her side, hazel eyes questioning.

"I'm sorry. I don't know what that was," Rachel stammered, pulling back slightly from the other girl, but Quinn wouldn't let her. She grabbed Rachel around the waist and held her close with a strength Rachel didn't imagine the other girl possessed. Quinn sat up straighter, so that she was eye level with Rachel, her eyes dark.

"Kiss me again."

"Excuse me? You want me to what?"

"Kiss. Me. Again. Don't make me repeat it, Berry," Quinn growled, leaning closer. Her breath played over Rachel's lips and Rachel could smell the tang of alcohol, mingling with the scent of Quinn's faint perfume. She could acutely feel Quinn's hand on her lower back, her arm wrapped around her, her knee digging into the outside of her thigh. She was drawn forward, she couldn't help it, and her lips were against Quinn's lips, her tongue tracing the other girl's mouth, begging for entrance. It was given, and their tongues darted in and out, mixing the taste of alcohol with their saliva, with a rapidly increasing need for more.

"I'm out for two seconds and this is what happens? Why didn't you wake me to watch?" a voice said, and the two girls sprang apart, Puck grinning at them. "Please, don't stop. It was getting hot."

"You're disgusting, Puckerman," Rachel said.

"I'm a dude, it's what I do. Bet your boyfriend wouldn't object to watching you two make out."

"Shut it, moron," Quinn snapped. She got up, dusting the grass off her black jeans. "Let's go. It's late anyway."

"Aw, c'mon Zombie Apocalypse, you're just gonna leave me hanging like that?" Puck called after her, but she gave no reply. And with Rachel following in the other girl's wake, he had no choice but to scoop up the three empty wine bottles and follow after them. They traipsed on in silence, each absorbed in their own thoughts, wondering what on earth had just happened, and what on earth they were going to do about it in the daylight hours.

**A/N: sorry for the huge time gap between this chapter and the last. What can I say? Life happens and I was busy. It was a super long one though, so I hope that made up for it a bit.**

**As always, I hope you enjoyed it.  
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	4. Chapter 4

For the first time in years, Rachel was reluctant to leave the warmth of her bed and face the day. Too much of the night before had replayed in her dreams, images of the pink haired girl beckoned, teased, flirted, demanded "Kiss. Me. Again." and Rachel, scrambling to obey, would lunge forward, only to find that Quinn, like a mirage, melted into vapour between her fingers. It was infuriating, this constant chase which led to nothing.

As soon as she awoke, Rachel wished she hadn't, but the alarm clock, screeching in her ear, didn't allow her the luxury of falling back asleep. So she arose, but slowly, with dread increasing at every moment; she was so struck by this want to stay home that she even missed her morning session on the elliptical; she had taken one look at the machine, groaned, and sat down on the edge of her bed instead. She hadn't missed a morning work out in four years.

This wasn't normal for Rachel; even at the worst of times, through a myriad of personal dramas, she had always found the will to continue with her life as she always did. Perseverance was what Rachel Berry was _good_ at. But last night, Quinn, and the kiss she hadn't wanted to end had thrown her, as if it had all jolted her so badly from her normal pattern that she couldn't fall back into her own life.

Alas, the world kept turning and the clock kept ticking, and Rachel, as always, found herself at school at the usual time. Even as she walked through the corridor, her eyes searched for pink. With every glimpse of the colour, her heart would lurch, only to settle when she realised that it was only a shirt or a bag - not the girl she was simultaneously desperate to see and desperate to avoid.

Rachel was on edge, much more than usual - much more than she had ever been, if she was being honest - and the slightest of things scared her. She almost jumped out of her skin when Finn tapped her on the shoulder while she was at her locker.

"Are you ok, Rachel? You seem kinda jumpy," he stated, staring at her with concern.

"Yes, thank you, Finn, I'm fine."

"Are you sure? Because you nearly jumped a mile into the air a second ago, and now you keep playing with your bag strap. I know how you fidget when you get nervous," he said. It was true; Rachel was scrunching and unscrunching the adjustment strap of her backpack in her hand. She stopped as soon as the boy brought it to her attention. Flashing a shaky grin, she linked her arm with his, forcing him to walk her to her first class, just as the bell rang.

"You're definitely ok?" he asked again as he left her at the classroom door.

"Yes, Finn. I'm fine," she repeated, and watched as he nodded then walked back down the hall, towards his own class. As she gazed at his retreating back, the person who had been making her nervous all morning came into view, pink hair brushed up and to the side, held in place with what Rachel imagined to be several cans of hairspray. She was wearing a loose black singlet with a skull on it, and her favourite torn black jeans; Rachel knew they were her favourite because she wore them all the time.

In that moment, Rachel wanted to hate her, she wanted to confront her about the night before, she wanted to act nonchalant towards her, wanted to pretend that she didn't care about the other girl's existence. But the pull in her navel couldn't force her to lie to herself - as much as she wanted those things, she wanted one other thing more - she wanted _her_.

She wanted Quinn in all her rebel glory. She wanted her with all her quirks, with all her flaws, with all the scars of her past; they didn't matter. Rachel had experienced Quinn at her worst, but that hadn't changed her opinion of her. It had endeared her more to the brunette, because there was someone out in the world, apart from Errant, with whom she felt empathy; she felt that they had experience the same deep cutting pain, even if for different reasons.

She tried to smile at the girl as she came towards the classroom, but Quinn shouldered past her, jaw clenched. The gesture hurt Rachel - not that she had expected any warmth from the girl, but she hadn't expected to be ignored either. Frowning, she turned on her heel and flopped down in her chair.

If the teacher had been trying to teach her something that lesson, it flew over her head. She paid no attention to the lesson, mindlessly copying the notes from the board into her notebook, spending most of her time staring at Quinn, who sat two seats down from Rachel, in the row in front of her own. She was trying to sort through the thoughts which stifled her mind, many of which involved the girl now staring out the window.

Rachel knew one thing: she wanted Quinn. She hadn't known it until moments before, standing in the doorway, watching the girl walk towards her with her newfound swagger and punk look. Whether Rachel wanted her romantically, or whether she wanted her because of the new feelings she sent vibrating through Rachel's body, she didn't know, but she knew that she wanted more than just a simple repeat of last night's kiss.

The rest of her thoughts were a mess. She worried, ceaselessly about a million different things. She worried about her new feelings, the way they sparked her blood into becoming a restless torrent of arousal, the way they sent shivers crawling up her spine when she looked at Quinn, the way they wouldn't stop her from looking at the other girl; the way they made her question why she didn't feel that way with her boyfriend. She worried about this the most. Wasn't that how she was supposed to feel when she was with him? When he said last year that he'd felt fireworks with Quinn, she'd wondered why he had never felt that with her and why she hadn't felt it with him, but passed it off - not all love was so cliché. But now, with the clichés burning through her, she wondered if maybe she was looking at the wrong kind of love with Finn. That thought sent her blood cold.

She fretted about the fact that she was questioning her sexuality over this girl. Quinn was, well, Quinn was Quinn, and she was secretive and manipulative, a downright bitch sometimes, and, admittedly, all together gorgeous. Rachel had always helped Quinn when she could, not out of kindness as most people, including Quinn herself, probably thought, but because Rachel felt it a necessity. She had this deep rooted concern for the girl, despite the torturous things she had done to Rachel over the years. The brunette hadn't held those things against her, in fact, they helped promote the concern she had that there was something deeply wrong about Quinn, that she kept her feelings hidden inside herself too much, and they were manifesting themselves in all the wrong ways.

But those wrong ways were also all the right ways; the hair, the look, the attitude - they were all so right. Quinn Fabray had never looked sexier. And Rachel Berry was lusting after her. Yes, that's what it was: lust; not love, not romance, but pure lust, so strong it was slowly killing her while the object of her need was again staring out the window, clenching and unclenching her hand on the desk. Rachel stared at her; she couldn't help it.

She was jolted from her reverie involving Quinn when the bell rang to signal the end of class. The pink haired girl was the first out, disappearing before some people even registered that class had ended. Rachel stared after her, wishing that she could have stayed just a little bit longer. She sighed and glanced out the window, wondering whether Quinn had even seen the deep azure sky and the grass so green that it was almost luminous, or whether, like herself, Quinn had been gazing, but not seeing.

It was at times like this that Rachel wished that she already lived in New York, away from the turmoil of her own mind, away from the confrontations that were bound to happen, but she so desperately wished wouldn't, away from the consequences that would follow if she ever decided to act upon her feelings. Living in such a small place had its disadvantages, and great ones, at that. She imagined that the night lights of Times Square would burn away her uncertainties and her inhibitions, and unbind her from the fears which took hold of her heart. She imagined the New York buildings would shelter her from the storm of inevitable consequences. Rachel was still lost in her escapist daydream as she trailed down the corridor, not entirely sure where she was going, when she was jerked entirely off her feet as someone grabbed her arm and pulled hard.

She hadn't quite recovered her balance when she was pushed against the wall, the sound of the thud echoing in the tiny space, which Rachel realised was the janitor's cupboard. A pair of lips found hers, forceful, hungry, pushing against her own, tongue begging entrance into her mouth, while hands, with fingers digging into the flesh on her hips, demanded more.

"Quinn," Rachel moaned, as the pair of lips began tracing her jaw line, and teeth nipped at her skin. She was certain of her assailant's identity; it was impossible for her to mistake that faint scent, or the flash of pink hair she'd glimpsed before the door closed to shut them in the dark.

"Shut it, Berry," the other girl growled, then ran her tip of her tongue over Rachel's lips, and roughly pushing her hands up her shirt, holding the girl's body up against the wall. Rachel gasped sharply when Quinn bit down on the soft flesh of her neck.

"That's going to leave a mark!" she panted.

"Good," grunted the other girl, and Rachel felt her lips smirk slightly against her skin, before moving back up to attack her mouth once more. Rachel was drawn into the kiss she'd been dreaming about: desperate and hot, frantic and needy, each of them wanting the other to the point of ferocity, biting lips, fencing tongues, combating for control. But even as she fought for the upper hand, Rachel knew that it was Quinn's; the other girl was directing every move, instigating every kiss and every frenzied pushing together of their bodies, always too close, but never close enough.

Rachel wanted more; more than the feel of Quinn's fingertips on her torso, setting her skin aflame, more than passionate kisses and territory marking bites - she wanted Quinn, all over, everywhere, at once. She wanted hands and tongue, kisses and bites, grinding and pinching, roughness and frenzy. But not there. She couldn't do it in a janitor's closet, as desperately as she wanted to. Rachel Berry was self respecting, if not anything else.

"Quinn, I can't," she whispered, pushing her off her, extracting her limbs from those of the other girl.

"You can," the pink haired girl said, kissing her again, trying to entice her back into the passion they'd been sharing but a second before.

"No, I can't. Not here at school in the middle of the day, hiding in the janitor's closet. Whatever you may think of me, Quinn, I have standards," Rachel said, pushing away again. She felt Quinn give way; they both knew that was that - nothing more was going to happen, not today. A pink haired head laid its forehead on Rachel's shoulder, and arms crept around her waist.

"I want you," Quinn whispered. In a second, Rachel's heartstrings became undone, and she almost, very nearly, tackled the girl to the ground and picked up where they'd left off. Instead, she put her arms around the girl and drew her close, so that the entire length of their bodies were touching, trying to tell her, in not in so many words that she felt the same.

What she was getting into with this girl, Rachel didn't know, but the webs of their lives were slowly getting more entangled, interweaving and entwining in ways neither of them imagined; this encounter in the cleaning cupboard was just a tiny rung in the ladder. Rachel could recognise that, even if she didn't know the rest of the steps.

"Where do we go from here?" she asked the girl whose head was still resting upon her shoulder.

"My bed would be nice," Quinn replied, and Rachel could hear the smile in her voice.

"Be serious!" she exclaimed, poking the girl in the ribs with her index finger. Quinn squirmed a little and Rachel subconsciously noted that the other girl was ticklish.

"I am," the girl replied, and while Rachel lusted after the girl, and the idea of being in her bed was so, so tempting, something held her back. Those insecurities she'd always felt about herself crashed through her thoughts, leaving her desire in tatters, making her pull back just when she most wanted to move forward. Her insecurities were the main reason she wanted to wait to have sex - she simply wasn't comfortable being unclothed with another person, so vulnerable, so unprotected without those layers of fabric. Rachel figured that by the time she was 25, she would be a Broadway star, living in the most amazing city in the world, and therefore all her past worries would have become obsolete, and she would be ready for that.

"I'm not ready," she whispered into ear of the other girl, "I want you too, but I'm not ready to have you. Not ready to let you have me. I hope you understand."

Quinn lifted her head from Rachel's shoulder, eyes finding Rachel's brown ones, even in the dark; they'd softened, as if in sympathy or concern, in a way that Rachel had never seen them before. If eyes were the windows to the soul, then Quinn, the Quinn Rachel was used to, had a soul of cold ice - but this Quinn proved otherwise. Behind the Doc Martens and the pink hair, the chains and the rebel attitude, lay the true Quinn Fabray, the one who cared, the one who would wait for Rachel to be ready. Rachel could see the decision in the hazel eyes before it was articulated.

"I'll wait."

"Thank you," Rachel replied, giving Quinn a half smile, embarrassed that she was making the other girl wait, but glad that she was willing to, all the same.

"Do I have to date you or something?" Quinn asked, frowning at her. Rachel's stomach sunk at Quinn's tone; she might not have wanted romance, but she didn't want to be a friend with benefits either - the first was too much to think about, and the latter made her feel like she was disposable, like some kind of whore.

And then there was the matter of the rest of the school finding out if she and Quinn dated. What would they do? They already had one gay person to pick on - they would have a field day if one suddenly became three. But Rachel knew, in her heart of hearts, what she wanted. Whether it made an outcast or not, it wouldn't matter - Glee had already done that for her. So, choosing her words carefully, she answered the other girl.

"It would be ideal if you and I dated, in order for me to become better acquainted and therefore more comfortable with you, which would lead to my becoming ready, but it's not necessary. I can accept it if you choose for us not to date, as difficult as it may be for us later."

"Right. Breadsticks tonight at 8, then?" Quinn suggested, as soon as the words stopped tumbling from Rachel's mouth, as though Rachel had put the idea forward and Quinn was just reaffirming the details. Mildly dumbfounded in the quick turn of events, Rachel nodded, mouth agape. Quinn reached out and closed it with her index finger, then placed a quick kiss on her cheek, before rushing out of the closet, leaving Rachel standing there in the dark. She blinked a few times, and gave her head a slight shake, trying to make sure that she was actually awake and all that had not been some kind of very tangible daydream. But she could feel her heart beating against her ribcage, could hear the students milling past in the corridor outside. She was very much awake.

As her eyes readjusted, she made out words on the back of the door. Squinting, she realised that the recognised the handwriting, the way the letters all leant to the right, as if vying for reaching the end of the sentence first. She didn't need the signature at the bottom to know that this was another of Errant's pieces. Fumbling for her journal, she eventually fished it out of her bag, balancing it open in her hand as she began copying the poem. The notebook bounced up and down each time the pen touched the page.

_I won your sweet surrender  
>On a ghostly autumn night,<br>When the mist made me feel  
>That I was floating in a dream.<br>But still a question remains:  
>In the war for your heart<br>Would you surrender to me again?_

As she wrote, Rachel was once again struck by how much the piece reflected some of her own thoughts and experiences, as though the Poet had snatched them from her mind while Rachel hadn't been looking. Perhaps, because the presence of the girl still lingered in the room, Rachel thought of Quinn, and how the words applied to them, especially their little foray on school grounds the night before; the night had even been foggy. The last lines, however, did not so much apply to Rachel - she didn't want Quinn's heart; things became too complicated when love was involved - she simply wanted trust and comfort, and an eventual fulfilment of her desires.

Flipping the journal shut, trapping the words within the pink covers, Rachel deposited it, along with her thoughts about Errant, into her backpack. She had other things to worry about for the moment, without fretting over a mysterious poet who sometimes seemed to know her better than she knew herself. Opening the door, she let the light abolish the image of the poem from her mind. She had a date to prepare for, after all.

**A/N: So, things are progressing. Thoughts? Comments? Questions? Let me know.**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: their first date. It doesn't go quite as Rachel had expected.**

Rachel was early. She was always early to things when she was nervous - a trait she could attribute to her dads. The waitress who had glared at her the night before was again eyeing her with suspicion.

"Waiting for your date again?" she asked, standing over Rachel with a notebook. Rachel noted that that the badge pinned to the lady's black shirt read Miranda.

"Yes. I'm early. We're supposed to meet at eight," Rachel explained. The waitress checked her watch, then gazed at Rachel with eyebrows raised high.

"It's seven o'clock," she said in disbelief.

"Yes, I like being early."

"I can see that," Miranda glared, before stomping off to wait on another table. Rachel watched her go. Perhaps seven was a little too early? She couldn't go home; she'd told her dads that she was having dinner with a friend. They'd freak out if she came home too early, thinking that something was wrong. Rachel wanted to spare herself the embarrassment of having to explain. Besides, she wasn't quite ready to explain that she was jittery because it was her first date with a girl. This time, Rachel wanted to make sure things were going smoothly before introducing Quinn to the family. She'd made the mistake in the past of introducing her boyfriends right away, which only led to her fathers getting extremely upset when things went wrong between Rachel and the boy in question. Daddy Hiram had wanted to castrate Finn the first time that Rachel had come home crying, and when Jesse had smashed an egg on Rachel's skull, it had taken all of his husband's strength to keep him from going after Jesse with a machete. Not that they owned a machete, but Rachel was sure that if pressed, Daddy would find one.

The memory brought another issue to the forefront of Rachel's mind: Finn. She couldn't date Quinn if she was still with Finn; it was cheating, even if nothing happened. And more than nothing had already happened; two kisses in two days and now a date as well. She knew that if she was going to give things a try with Quinn, then she was going to have to break things off with Finn, but she was reluctant to hurt the boy. He'd chased her, he'd taken her on an amazing date in New York, he'd written a song about them, he'd kissed her in front of thousands of people - it cost them the competition, but it was still romantic - and now, she was cheating on him. With his ex-girlfriend, no less. Rachel's guilty conscience weighed on her mind.

Her eyes followed people as they came and went from the restaurant, fingers spinning the fork around on the table, absentmindedly. The place wasn't particularly romantic, but it was the most popular place in town; the residents of Lima, Ohio, really loved their breadsticks. Finn had brought her here hundreds of times; they'd sit at their regular booth, he'd order their regular dishes and they'd have their regular conversations about school and Glee and their weekend plans, which normally included more dates to Breadsticks. There was never any talk about the future, about where they would be in a year's time, if Rachel went to New York for college and Finn stayed here. Rachel didn't want to be forced to choose between love and her career again, and Finn couldn't confront the fact that he was going to lose his girlfriend to the metropolitan. It was a problem which got swept under the carpet, to be worried about later.

Her situation with Finn made her wonder if being with him was the right decision; whether being with anyone was the right decision, because in less than a year, she was going to have to leave them. Separation was always hard for Rachel; she always got too attached too quickly and was always heartbroken when things ended, when people left. In the dim light of the restaurant, she wondered if this date was a bad idea.

The girl confused Rachel, going from the captain of the Celibacy Club to becoming pregnant., then going from the captain of the cheer squad to the queen of the underground rebel movement. She was a woman of extremes. And when did this change in sexuality occur? Had she always harboured feelings for women, or was this recent? Was it a phase? Rachel took that question and applied it to herself: was she going through a phase? She'd heard all about confused teenagers who thought they were gay, but were actually not. Was she one of them? She wasn't sure.

She'd felt attracted to girls before, but never had she wanted to be physically intimate with any of them, the way she did with Quinn. Did lust count when determining sexuality? Maybe she should talk to her dads, but she imagined the conversation would be incredibly awkward. Better yet, maybe she could talk to Santana Lopez. No, that wasn't a good idea - the girl wasn't out of the closet yet and would probably tear Rachel apart for even asking. Maybe Rachel could ask Brittany Pierce - the fluid girl whom Santana was in love with.

She sighed and looked at her watch. 7:15. Time was passing so slowly.

"Hey Rachel," someone said, stopping at her table, "what are you doing here?"

"Kurt! You surprised me!"

"You're off with the fairies. It's no wonder he surprised you," Blaine offered from Kurt's side. Rachel smiled at the two of them. She'd been hesitant in accepting Blaine as Kurt's boyfriend, but Kurt was happy with him, and that's all that mattered to Rachel.

"I'm supposed to be meeting Quinn," Rachel explained, answering Kurt's question. He and Blaine exchanged a glance.

"You mean the Quinn we just saw pacing back and forth outside?" Kurt said, raising an eyebrow.

"She's here?" Rachel squeaked, then blushed deeply when she realised what she'd sounded like. Kurt raised his eyebrows higher while Blaine chuckled a little.

"She looks like a trainwreck. You'd think from the way she's acting that you two were going on your first date or something," he said, eyes glowing with something that Rachel thought looked too much like knowledge. She coughed upon the completion of his sentence, but tried to laugh it off. She cleared her throat.

"I should go get her," she murmured, getting to her feet quickly, knocking the table and sending her cutlery clattering across the floor. Going red again, she rushed to the door, people staring after her, pulling it open and stumbling outside, slamming right into Quinn. The two of them became a messy pile of limbs on the floor, bruised and sore.

"Rachel. I didn't see you coming," Quinn groaned.

"Sorry! Sorry! Me neither. I didn't mean to bowl you over."

"Are you ok?" Kurt exclaimed from the doorway, "we heard a crash, so we came running."

"We're ok. We just had a minor collision," Rachel muttered, red flushing her cheeks still further. It was embarrassing to be caught like that, lying on top of Quinn. Over Kurt's shoulder, the waitress, Miranda, was glaring. Rachel was mortified; and she was sure the waitress was beginning to hate her more and more.

"I think we should leave," she said to Quinn as they stood, "that waitress is death glaring us."

"We'll go somewhere else," Quinn said.

"This is the second night in a row I've sat in there and not bought anything. No wonder she hates me."

"It's a good thing I grabbed your bag then," Kurt said, holding up Rachel's handbag, "unlike some people, I know not to leave a handbag behind."

Blushing for the umpteenth time that evening, Rachel grabbed the bag off Kurt.

"We'll just be going then," Quinn said, nodding at the two boys and moving towards the parking lot. Rachel followed her, waving goodbye at her friends.

"Have fun on your date!" Blaine called after them, and Rachel turned to see Kurt giving him a small punch in the shoulder. Blaine grinned at her. She knew he was saying it to wind her up; he had fun making her feel uncomfortable.

Quinn stopped beside a motorbike. Rachel's heart momentarily stopped.

"What…what's this?" she stammered.

"This is Kurt," Quinn grinned, patting the bike. Rachel's mouth fell open.

"What? You named your bike after our friend? Does he know? I'm not sure he would approve."

"Not after Hummel. After Cobain. You know, Nirvana's Cobain."

"Oh. Well, that makes sense," Rachel said.

"This is for you," Quinn said, shoving a helmet into Rachel's hands. Her heart almost leapt out of her mouth at the implication.

"You sit here," Quinn motioned, patting the seat, "and hold on tight. I don't want you flying off at any point. It would ruin the mood of our first date."

Rachel looked, horrified, at the other girl. This is not what she had envisioned for their first date. She'd imagined dinner, then maybe a walk, and lots of interesting conversation - not a ride on a death machine. Quinn caught the expression on her face and laughed.

"I'm kidding Rachel. It's completely safe, but you have to wear the helmet and hold on," she said, gently pulling the helmet out of Rachel's hands and affixing it to her head, pulling the straps tight enough that it would stay on, but not so tight that the straps cut into Rachel's chin. Quinn's finger lingered on Rachel's chin for a second longer than necessary, before pulling back. Rachel's own hands shook.

"Hey, hey," Quinn murmured, taking Rachel's hands, "it's ok. Old Kurt here might be addicted to gas, but I promise he'd never hurt a fly. I won't go too fast or do anything crazy, I promise. But you have to trust me."

"Is it even legal for you to ride."

"It's legal for anyone over fifteen and a half years old to ride. You have to get parental permission though, until you're eighteen."

"Your mother actually gave you permission to ride this thing? Is she insane?"

"I told her that if she didn't let me, I'd move out. Besides, I'll be eighteen in less than a year, meaning I wouldn't need her permission. She realised that sooner or later, this was going to happen. So she gave in and let me get a licence."

"So it's safe?"

"It's safe."

"As long as I wear a helmet and hold on?"

"Exactly right."

"Ok. Ok. But promise you'll drive slow!"

"I promise," Quinn reassured, patient with Rachel, who was still slightly freaking out.

"Where do I sit?" Rachel asked, tentatively touching the bike, as though fearing that it would bite her. Quinn patted the seat, putting her own helmet on. She handed Rachel a pair of goggles.

"You have to wear these too. It's illegal not to."

Rachel slipped them on without complaint, as hideous as they were. She watched Quinn straddle the bike, and Rachel followed suit after seeing how it was done. But not before taking a second to admire how Quinn looked sitting atop the motorcycle; if the girl hadn't already made Rachel aroused, the sight of her on the bike would have. But Quinn wasn't waiting; she gestured Rachel onto the bike. Rachel, swung her leg over the seat, imitating Quinn, though with less grace, and straddled the bike behind the other girl. Quinn motioned to where her feet should go, and Rachel obliged, heart picking up its pace with every passing second. She was on a motorbike - something she never thought she'd do.

She placed her hands on Quinn's waste, imagining them being ready to go, but Quinn shook her head.

"Not there. You have to really hold on," she said, taking Rachel's hands and wrapping them around her torso. The new position meant that Rachel was pressed against Quinn's back. She could feel the girl's body heat seeping through her jacket.

"Ok, let's go," Quinn said, flicking down her visor. Below them, the bike roared to life and Rachel's heart started racing. If it didn't slow down, Rachel thought she just might have a heart attack. But when the bike started moving, her heart nearly exploded out of her chest. Quinn leaned forward and accelerated away. Rachel thought she'd left her stomach behind.

The engine growled in her ear as they zoomed through the streets of Lima. As far as Rachel could tell, they most definitely were not going slowly. The houses sped past in blurs and when Quinn took a corner, she thought the whole bike would collapse on its side. Oddly, Rachel was gripped by an urge to throw her hands into the air and cheer. She refrained, but only just. It was a feeling similar to the one she experienced when she stood at the precipice of high things - like she wanted to jump, even though it would kill her. There was that excitement of danger, of the adrenaline pulsing through her veins, pushing her to follow the thrill. She could see why Quinn had abandoned the car for the bike.

Quinn turned onto the highway on the outskirts of Lima and Rachel wondered where she was taking them to. She hoped she hadn't misplaced her trust in the girl and that she wasn't going to be putting them both in danger. Boarded up country houses and rusty tractors blurred past as the pair sped along the tarmac. The road was empty, the night was clear and cool and Quinn's back was warm. In that moment, Rachel didn't care if they drove forever, as long as the night kept its perfection. She would almost swear, with the moonlight reflecting off the black asphalt, that they were immortal, invulnerable; the only two people alive in the universe, destined to live together forever. It made her wonder why she'd ever been afraid of the bike in the first place; she'd never felt so exhilarated.

But their journey wasn't destined to continue forever, and fifteen minutes later, Quinn was pulling into a roadside diner, the bike kicking up clouds of dust as it eased into the parking lot. Other motorbikes littered the lot, looking as though they had just been abandoned haphazardly, but looking closer, Rachel could make out a sense of uniformity. Quinn crawled into a spot near the fence line and switched off the engine. The sudden quiet hurt Rachel's ears, and the lack of vibration made her body feel light.

Quinn removed her helmet, then helped Rachel take hers off, slipping it into the compartment under the seat, as Rachel got off the bike. Sounds of a crowd and a rock and roll band assailed her ears, drifting from the diner.

"What did you think?" Quinn asked, jerking her head towards her motorcycle. Rachel grinned.

"It was wonderful. But you lied! You weren't going slowly!"

"Yes I was. That was slow for that bike. You have so much to learn," Quinn said with a mockingly exasperated sigh. Rachel pushed her lightly, making the pink haired girl laugh.

"I also have helmet hair!" Rachel moaned.

"Yes, well, you were wearing a helmet," Quinn stated, and Rachel rolled her eyes.

"Where are we, anyway?"

"Welcome to the House of Chaos!"

"Don't make fun, Quinn Fabray. Where are we?"

"Where I said. Look," Quinn pointed, and sure enough, on a sign mounted above the door, was the name House of Chaos.

"Sounds dangerous," Rachel muttered, dubious.

"It's great. Anyway, I thought you liked danger now, with breaking into school and all," Quinn teased, causing Rachel to push her again. "C'mon, they're nice in there."

Together they walked towards the entrance, and the sound of raucous laughter got louder. Climbing the stairs, Rachel could smell the tang of beer in the air.

"I thought you said this was a diner!" Rachel accused, glaring at Quinn, and pointing her finger.

"Actually, you assumed it was. It's more like a bar which serves food."

"You brought me to a bar?"

"It's a nice bar," Quinn defended.

"We're not even legal!"

"Relax Berry. They're cool. And you don't have to drink alcohol."

"We're not legally allowed to drink!" Rachel exclaimed and Quinn chuckled.

She pushed the door open and pulled Rachel in after her. A couple of people near the door paused and glared at them, but went back to their conversations when they realised that they were two girls of no interest. Quinn, pulling Rachel by the hand, led them to the bar. The barman, upon seeing Quinn, grinned widely, reaching out to clap her on the shoulder.

"Well, looky here! If it ain't my favourite rule breakin' teenager! Ain't it a little late for ya to be out and about on a school night?" he drawled. Rachel instantly took a liking to this man with his kind face and dirty cowboy hat.

"It's only eight o'clock, Bernie!"

"Too right it is! And you brought your girlfriend with ya!" he exclaimed as he saw Rachel. Beside her, Quinn blushed, face turning as pink as her hair.

"She's…she's not…" she stammered to the burly man, much to his and Rachel's amusement.

"Nothin' to be embarrassed about, girlie! You know we love ya anyway," he encouraged, clapping her on the shoulder again, before turning to Rachel, "now, mind you keep our little Quinnie outta trouble. She's got a mind for chaos, that one."

"Oh, I will, sir," she promised.

"None o' that 'sir' business. Name's Bernie! Proud owner of this dump for twenty five years!"

"Rachel Berry," she said, extending her hand, which the older man took, "Pleasure to meet you."

"Now look at that! This girl's got herself some manners. Maybe you ought to teach Quinnie here some. Right rude she is sometimes," he grinned and Quinn buried her face in her hands.

"Oi, Bernie, leave Quinnie alone! You're embarrassing the poor girl to death," a man said further along down the bar. Quinn jumped up in surprise, rushing to throw herself into the man's arms.

"I thought you were in Albuquerque! You came back and didn't tell me?" Quinn exclaimed, punching the man in the shoulder.

"I was in Albuquerque. Just got back today. If you let me breathe for a second, I would've told you that," the man groaned, rubbing his shoulder. Rachel looked the man up and down; he was young-ish, in his late twenties, she guessed, clean shaven, with scruffy brown hair, streaked with gold from the sun. He was muscular, but not brawny like the other men in the bar, and his close fitting grey t-shirt showed off the planes of his chest.

"Rachel," Quinn said, pulling her to stand beside her, "this is Mark. Mark, this is Rachel."

"Ah, the famous Rachel! I've heard lots about you," Mark said, flashing a grin before kissing her cheek in greeting.

"Really? What has Quinn said?" she asked in curiosity. She found it strange that this man should know things about her when she knew nothing about him.

"Nothing!" Quinn exclaimed before the man could speak, a faint blush painting her cheeks with a tinge of red. Rachel raised her eyebrows at the man, who laughed.

"Nothing she wants me to repeat, apparently. Don't worry Quinn. I won't tell. Bernie's embarrassed you enough for one night."

Rachel's stomach settled in disappointment. The curiosity to know was burning a hole in her, but clearly Mark's loyalty to Quinn was more important to him than satisfying her curiosity. She would just have to go without. She wondered at their relationship. Who was he for Quinn to talk about her to?

"Hey Bernie, some service would be nice," Mark was calling to the barkeeper.

"Some politeness from you would be nice," the man grumbled, but shuffled over all the same. Rachel guessed that Mark was showing off for her benefit, riling the older man.

"A beer for myself, a rum and coke for Quinnie, and, uh-" he broke off, looking at Rachel.

"An orange juice," she provided.

"And and OJ for the lovely lady! My shout," he grinned at the girls. He fished some notes out of his pocket and paid the barkeep, who promptly fetched them some drinks.

"So, what are you up to, here at this time of night?" Mark asked, taking a sip of his beer.

"First date," Quinn muttered, looking down at her drink.

"First date? Geez, Fabray, you really know how to impress a girl, don't you? Take her to a bikey bar on the first date."

"Back off, Brennan!" Quinn growled.

"I apologise for Quinn not knowing the first thing about romantic first dates," Mark said, taking Rachel's hand to show his sincerity. Rachel laughed. If only he knew that she preferred this to romance, given that she didn't want to fall in love with Quinn. Love was definitely on the 'Not to do' list. The biker bar setting was perfect, in Rachel's mind. It was opening the door for her into Quinn's world. For the first time, Rachel was seeing Quinn's life outside of school. Until now, Rachel had no idea what Quinn did in her spare time, nor who she saw, who she was friends with, but here she was, getting a glimpse into that life. It wasn't as bad as Rachel thought it was going to be; she had imagined drug using Goths with spiky mohawks, or heavy metal lovers with thousands of piercings - not these bikers, happily chatting away over their pints of beer. Certainly not clean shaven, nice, well spoken Mark, or friendly, burly Bernie. It was a pleasant surprise.

"Well, the least she can do is impress you on your first date. You know what that means, don't you, Quinnie?" Mark slyly grinned.

"You're on, Brennan!" Quinn said, marching off.

"Quinn is rather famous around here. Not only is she the youngest person to ever set foot here, but she is absolutely unbeatable at pool," Mark explained, linking his arm with Rachel's. Rachel raised her eyebrows; that was new information for her.

Quinn was already at the table, arranging the balls in their triangular starting position. Mark left Rachel to stand near one of the bar's supporting poles, while h picked himself a cue.

"Budge up, brother. Fabray is in the house," he said to a man leaning on the table's corner. The man moved, turning to watch the impending game, interest lighting up his eyes. Quinn was chalking up her own cue, leaving blue dust on its tip.

Rachel looked around while the two prepared; friends about to turn competitors. On the other side of the bar, a band was rocking out on a tiny stage, and a few people were headbanging on an equally as tiny dance floor. Mostly, people gathered at tables with their drinks, the din of their chatter trying to rise above the music. It was altogether a comfortable atmosphere. Rachel felt rather safe - something she wouldn't have expected, being in a room full of bikers.

"Sure you're ready for this, Mark?" she heard Quinn say and she turned back to the pool game.

"As ever."

"Then you can break," Quinn said. Rachel thought it an insult, until she saw that it meant Mark taking the first shot. He stood at one end of the table, leaned over, lining his cue up with the white ball. Drawing his arm back, he immediately thrust it forward with force, sending the white ball cracking into the tightly packed triangle of other balls. The group of men who'd gathered yelled in appreciation as three balls disappeared into various holes.

"Two bigs and one small," Quinn said. Rachel had no idea what she meant; she hadn't the faintest idea of how the game was played, but it was interesting to see this side of Quinn again. Quinn's competitive side had gone into hibernation when she'd quit the Cheerios the year before, but Rachel could see that it had simply manifested itself in different ways.

Mark took another shot. And missed. Quinn's turn.

"Hey Rachel, mind holding this?" she asked, slipping off her jacket and handing it to the brunette. It left her in a white singlet, sculpted to fit her body. When she bent forward to take her shot, it rode up, revealing her studded belt and a sliver of pale skin. Rachel dug her fingers into the jacket and bit her lip; the sight was incredibly arousing. So taken with watching Quinn, she didn't even realise that the pink haired girl had put a ball into the hole until a cheer went up from the on watchers, who were slowly increasing in size. Quinn moved around to the other side of the table to take another shot, Rachel watching enraptured, stomach fluttering at the little smirk Quinn gave as she sunk another ball.

"Some date you are, leaving your girl to the side, holding your jacket, while you get to play your games," Mark teased, trying to psych the pink haired girl out, trying to break her concentration. It didn't work. Quinn sunk the next ball too.

"Do you want a go?" Quinn asked Rachel, beckoning her over with a smile, "I just sunk three balls, I'm sure he knows that if I keep playing he's going to lose again. No point humiliating him further."

"Oh, I, um, actually, I don't know how to play," Rachel stammered, looking away from Quinn's hazel eyes.

"That's ok. I can teach you. It's quite easy once you get the hang of it."

Taking the jacket from Rachel's arms and leaving it draped over the couch along the wall, Quinn handed the cue over to Rachel, telling her to hit the white ball to hit the stripped ball, to make it go into the easiest hole. Feeling foolish, Rachel leaned over the table, trying to emulate the positions of Quinn and Mark, closing one eye to make sure that she was lining the balls up right. Thrusting the stick forward, she jerked backwards as it hit the green felt instead of the white ball. Glowing red from her failure, she could hear Mark chuckle behind her.

"No, here. You have to hold the cue like this," Quinn said, taking her hand and moving it up the stick, so that it was near the very end, on the carved handgrip, "and this hand goes like this, like a support. It helps you aim too. Now, you lean over like this," she demonstrated, leaning in with Rachel, her right hand over Rachel's on the cue, and her left near Rachel's on the table. Rachel could feel Quinn's breath on her face, and smell the alcohol on her breath, from the offending coke and rum perched on the table's corner.

"Now, draw back your arm like this, make sure you're going to hit the white ball, aiming it to hit that one over there, and push forward," Quinn continued, making the motions with her hands over Rachel's. The white ball jerked forward, completely missing the other ball. Quinn dropped her hand from Rachel's and moved back. Rachel immediately missed the contact, despite the room being filled with big, tattooed motorcyclists.

"I missed."

"That's ok. It was a nice try. It takes a bit to get the hang of," Quinn smiled, "now Mark gets two shots, because we didn't hit anything. Now see, he can only hit the fully coloured balls; they're called the big ones. And we have to hit only the small ones, which are the stripped ones. And we can't hit the black ball. That goes in last."

"Is that it? They're the rules?" Rachel asked in disbelief. She thought it much more complicated than that.

'Yep, that's it. If we don't hit anything, Mark gets two shots. If the white ball gets sunk, he gets two goes. If he gets a ball in, he gets another go. Same applies the other way around as well. And there he goes, missing again. Your turn," Quinn grinned. Rachel swallowed. She didn't want to let Quinn down. Leaning over, she went to attempt again, only to be stopped by the pink headed girl, who corrected her grip again, and her stance. Satisfied, she moved away, nodding at Rachel to hit the white ball. She did. And it hit the ball she was aiming at, knocking it into the corner hole. Proud of her achievement, Rachel squealed a little, grinning widely.

"I did it! I did it! I got it in!" she said, dancing a tiny victory dance.

"That you did. I'm proud of you," Quinn said, leaning in to give her a quick kiss on the cheek. Rachel's heart jumped at the contact and Quinn's cheeks flushed a pale pink. She smiled shyly at Rachel and reminded her that she had another go. But Rachel, so distracted by her first victory and the kiss Quinn had planted on her cheek, missed completely, granting Mark another two goes.

Even with Quinn guiding her through the rest of the game, Rachel could not hit another ball, and Mark ended up winning quite soon after. Neither Quinn nor Rachel minded; they'd had too much fun trying to teach and learn, respectively. Mark rolled his eyes at their antics, wondering how they'd taken so long to get to a date, when they were obviously quite enamoured of each other.

"Hey! Let's dance!" Rachel suggested, dragging Quinn by the arm to the dance floor on the other side of the bar.

"I have a better idea," Quinn said, corners of her mouth turning up in what Rachel recognised to be the smile she gave when she was planning something mischievous. Quinn, running up onto the stage at the end of the song, whispered something into the ear of the guitarist, who nodded along, then went to share with the rest of the band. Quinn grabbed the microphone, bringing it down to Rachel as the guitarist began belting out the beginning chords of a song. Rachel recognised it right away; last year she claimed it to be her favourite Fleetwood Mac song. With the microphone shoved into her hands, Rachel did the only thing she knew how to do: raised it to her mouth and sang.

Her voice filled the room, carrying over the din of the bikers, distracting them from their conversations. They'd been so used to the terrible vocalists of the bands who always played that they were shocked into silence by her very real talent. It only further encouraged her. Climbing the stage from the dance floor, she made sure that she could be seen, letting the song transport her audience into another dimension.

"She's got one hell of a voice," Mark said to Quinn, as they watched the tiny girl on the stage.

"I know. That's why she's going to be on Broadway one day."

"You're so sure about that."

"Yes," Quinn said, nodding along to the music. The two let the music fill the silence between them.

"You've never fallen for a boy like you've fallen for her," Mark quietly observed.

"I know."

"Does she know?"

"No. I can't tell her. She'd freak out."

"She likes you."

"Yeah, but I love her. And she won't ever love me the way she loves Broadway, so I can't tell her in case it changes her mind about leaving. She already debated once about that over a boy. She shouldn't have to choose."

"You'd sacrifice your heart so she can have her dream? You are one tough girl, Quinn Fabray. But maybe you shouldn't let her get away."

"What, follow her to New York?"

"Why not?" Mark asked, raising his eyebrows at the girl. Quinn didn't have an answer, at least not one she could articulate. She sighed; she didn't want to think about that just yet.

She clapped the hardest when the closing chords of the song sounded, grinning at the girl whose face was aglow with pleasure. Quinn's heart hurt when she thought about having Rachel leave at the end of the school year; she wasn't sure she could face having to see her go.

"Quinn! I'm going to kill you!" Rachel exclaimed, rushing to the pink haired girl's side, "that was a completely unfair impromptu!"

"I thought you enjoyed showcasing your talent," Quinn laughed, teasing the girl.

"Well, yes, I do. But that was still unfair. Do you think they enjoyed it? I hope they did. I wasn't exactly my best, because it was sprung on me, but I think it was passable. What do you think?"

"Rachel, I think it was perfect, and they loved it," Quinn reassured, and Mark nodded.

"You've got a set of vocals on you. Quinn wasn't overexaggerating, when she told me you were good," he said, making Rachel blush, "Anyway, I'll leave you two to it. A date isn't any fun when there's a third wheel."

"Was it really that good?" Rachel asked as Mark walked away.

"Rachel, it was fantastic. Better than the first time you sang it in Glee."

"You would say that. Last time I sang it I was singing it to your boyfriend," Rachel grimaced.

"I was worried you were taking him away from me. And look what happened; he's your boyfriend now. I was right to be worried," Quinn laughed, "anyway, let's go sit down. I'll buy you another drink. What would you like?"

With that, the two of them moved to one of the couches along the walls, teasing and laughing and flirting like mad. They solicited strange looks from the bikers in the room who had never seen Quinn so happy, and they wondered who this brown haired girl was, making their adoptive biker daughter laugh like they had never seen her laugh before. Even as they laughed, Rachel had some not so happy thought swirl through her mind, and though eager to question Quinn, held back. This was only their first date after all.

The night passed quicker than Rachel thought it was possible, giving new meaning to the phrase "time flies", and Bernie was yelling at Quinn with his fatherly voice to go home because it was a school night. Rachel laughed at the sight of the burly man with a bottle of alcohol in one hand telling the small pink haired girl to leave otherwise she'd never get to school the next morning; he didn't seem the type to care about education, but there he was. Obliging him, Quinn said goodbye to him and Mark, and various other men on the way out, whom had drifted over to talk to them throughout the night, and pulled Rachel out of the House of Chaos.

"So, what did you think?" Quinn asked as they walked towards the bike.

"I got to see you play pool and lose, got to kick your ass at poker, and got to sing in front of a crowd of tattooed motorcyclists. I think it was brilliant," Rachel grinned.

"I only lost because I handed the cue over to you," Quinn growled playfully, "and as for the poker, well, I've never been good at that anyway."

"And I got to meet your family," Rachel added, and Quinn looked at her with that soft expression in her eyes again, the same as hours earlier in the janitor's closet, "they were amazing. They're so accepting, for bikers. I didn't expect that."

"You have to learn to expect the unexpected with me," Quinn laughed, then turned serious, "but yeah, they are great. I wasn't sure how they'd react to you, but they took it exceptionally well. I mean they already know that I'm…well, yeah."

"A lesbian?" Rachel asked tentatively, not sure whether she was pushing too far with the conversation by putting the word out there. Quinn sighed, a deep one, from the heart.

"Yeah. But I don't like the label. I'm me, that's all. If I'm going to be labelled anything, I'm going to be labelled Quinn Fabray, because that's who I am. 'Lesbian', 'dyke' or 'gay' just try to put me into a category to define me, when my sexuality is only a tiny part of who I am. I can't be defined as anything other than myself," she said, looking at the stars.

"I understand. I wouldn't want you to be anyone other than Quinn Fabray," Rachel whispered, taking Quinn's hand and smiling. Quinn smiled back, a melancholy smile, showing the weight on her heart.

"The real question is, Quinn, are you safe to drive this motorbike?"

"Of course. Why wouldn't I be? Did we not have this conversation earlier?"

"You were drinking," Rachel reminded her.

"I had one drink. The coke and rum, hours ago. Trust me, I'm fine now. I might be a rule breaker, but I wouldn't do anything to compromise your safety," Quinn said with utmost sincerity, and Rachel, upon compulsion, leant forward and lightly kissed her on the lips. There was too much she wanted to express, and that was the only way she knew how, even if it was only the tip of the iceberg. Grinning, Quinn helped Rachel onto the bike, then started the engine, accelerating into the night.

This time, Rachel could feel the speed. Quinn wasn't lying when she said before hadn't been fast at all. And this time, without hesitation, Rachel let out a whoop of exhilaration, letting the adrenaline flood her body, bringing the night to a high. The darkness enveloped them in its perfection, the moonlight promising many more nights just like it.


	6. Chapter 6

**A.N**: **Post first date, Rachel has some deep thinking to do.**

_Don't wait for me.  
>I lost track of my life<br>While I was burning streaks in the sky,  
>Hoping someone would notice.<br>The fire has faded,  
>But the struggle still remains,<br>Wrenching a hole in my existence,  
>Beckoning me away from here;<br>Into the void I go.  
>Don't follow.<br>It would swallow you whole,  
>You innocent thing,<br>Dreaming of skyscrapers  
>And red velvet curtains.<br>Get lost in your urban wonderland;  
>It's a better place than any I can offer,<br>With my beat up jeans  
>And packet of cigarettes.<em>

This is what Rachel read in the pages of her little pink journal, holding it in her lap as she sat propped up against her pillows. Following her date with Quinn, exhausted, she'd crawled up the stairs to her bedroom, the reprimanding of her dads following her up, admonishing her for coming home so late on a school night. She hadn't been bothered to argue with them; she was still riding on the high of the speeding motorcycle, and the soft, but lingering kiss that Quinn had gifted her as they parted, several houses down, so Rachel's dads wouldn't see them, could still be tasted on her lips.

She'd planned to go straight to bed, but as she dragged her feet into her room, she was gripped by a compulsion to look over the poems of Errant, as if to ease her guilt of not trying to work out who it was that day. So, there she was, having pulled the journal out from her bag, and flipped it open to the first pages. This poem was the first one she'd ever seen, written in chalk on the parking lot's floor. It was the only poem so far to have been written in an impermanent medium, and had long since been washed away by rain, and the footsteps of hundreds of students treading over it everyday. Recognising the transience of the material, Rachel had whipped out her journal, which she had planned on using for song writing, and copied the poem down; she'd done the same with any she came across ever since. It had almost become a reflexive habit.

She wasn't sure what exactly it was about her date with Quinn which made her want to read Errant's poetry; most likely the theme of darkness which was underlying in all the poems - it reminded Rachel of Quinn. This one in particular, with its reference to 'beat up jeans' and a 'packet of cigarettes' was very reminiscent of the girl, even though Quinn promised Rachel that she didn't smoke. However, Rachel knew that Quinn had; she'd seen her light up once or twice behind the bleachers, hiding from the hawklike eyes of the teaching staff. Maybe Quinn meant that she didn't do it anymore. Rachel hoped not; she didn't like the idea of kissing an ashtray. Come to think of it, Rachel realised, running her tongue over her lips lightly, there wasn't the slightest trace of tobacco in Quinn's kiss; a very faint metallic tang of alcohol, and something which was almost like pure sugar, yes, but no tobacco. This pleased Rachel more than she thought it would.

She snuggled closer into her pillows, rereading the words. There was something in it, a reluctance which Rachel found heartbreaking. Errant was trying to let someone go, because keeping them would be disastrous; Rachel imagined that it took a lot of strength of character to be able to do that. She knew she couldn't; all those times with Finn, even through his traipsing after Quinn, she had pursued, because she wasn't strong enough not to, because she was too selfish to be strong. She recognised this flaw in herself, even if she wouldn't admit it out loud.

And there she was; she got the boy, she got the fairytale romance and the Disney approved date. She got the security, she got the comfort; she got everything she dreamed of. So why was she going out on dates with Quinn? She loved Finn; that was undeniable - but it wasn't the type of love which made her heart hammer, or made her nervous - it was the type of love where she was happy to see him, content to be given his affection, if not his undivided attention. They were comfortable together, even if they had their fair share of awkward moments, in which Finn didn't pay attention to everything Rachel was saying, or when Rachel didn't understand a single word that Finn was saying, because he was talking about sports, in which she had no interest.

But Quinn…Quinn set Rachel's blood afire, made her stomach do acrobatics, forced her heart to race so hard that its owner feared it was going to stop out of exhaustion. Rachel wondered; was it normal to feel that way about a girl, but not about your boyfriend? Was it strange that she could say she loved her boyfriend, but experience all the clichés of love with someone else and not with him? She sighed, letting the air escape from her lungs in one long exhalation, wishing her confusion would leave her just as easily.

A knock rang out from her door, and it opened slightly to let a head in.

"Still awake? You know, honey, you should be sleeping, considering what time you got in," her dad Leroy, whom she called Papa, commented, but not with force.

"I know. I just, I had some thinking to do," Rachel said, smiling a little at the man, dressed still in an argyle sweater and loose fitting pants.

"What's bothering you? Remember you can always talk to Papa about anything," Leroy said, entering the room. He went to shut the blinds, but Rachel stopped him.

"Don't. I want to see the moon."

"Are you ok, baby girl? First getting home so late, and then wanting to leave the blinds open. You've never liked leaving the blinds open. You always thought, when you were little, that something scary would tap on the window in the night. Closing the blinds helped you sleep," the man smiled, coming to sit on Rachel's bed.

"I'm fine, Papa. But the moon's so beautiful tonight, I just wanted to see it," Rachel murmured, thinking of being on the back of Quinn's bike, with that same moon guarding them as they sped along the roads.

"Is it that Finn boy again?"

"What? No, Papa, he hasn't done anything."

"Mm ok, honey. But you know if he does, your daddy will kill him. I don't want to have to hold him back again, so if there is anything, it's best it stays between us," Leroy said, holding a finger to his lips.

"It's not good to keep secrets in a relationship, you know," Rachel teased.

"Yes, yes, you're full of relationship advice when it's not your relationship," Leroy teased back. Rachel smiled, but followed the smile with a sigh; he was right. Leroy saw the change in his daughter's demeanour, but held his tongue a second longer; he was the patient one of the relationship - Rachel learnt her impatience off his husband, Hiram. Leroy understood his daughter just like he understood his husband; she would talk when she was ready, and he could see her forming the sentences in her mind. Her eyes gave away a lot more than she thought they did. Or maybe he just knew her too well - he did raise her, after all.

"Papa," she began, slowly, as if trying to get her wording right, "how did you know, with Daddy?"

Leroy's brow furrowed into a slight frown. It wasn't like Rachel to ask questions like that. And she said it had nothing to do with Finn; was she lying to him? Concerned, he wanted to ask, but thought better of it. If he knew anything about his daughter, it was that she was independent; if she wanted help, she would ask for it, and if she needed help, but was too embarrassed, she would be more subtle, like now. So he simply answered, as best as he could.

"I just knew, baby girl. He came waltzing into class with his blue button up shirt and cute little glasses, and I couldn't keep my eyes off him. Over time we started talking, and I tried to act like it was nothing, like he was just another friend, but baby, the heart always knows what the head tries to ignore. It would always start to beat faster when he came into the room, then skip beats when he talked to me, or smiled at me. It's the most amazing feeling in the world when your heart develops that temporary arrhythmia because of someone, like your body knows something you haven't worked out in your head yet."

"Like real life foreshadowing?" Rachel asked, curious.

"A little bit like that. Eventually, I had to acknowledge that I was falling in love with him; some strange Jewish boy with glasses and a hurry to always be somewhere else. It was terrifying; I was truly in love with this boy. I thought I'd fallen in love with boys before, but I was wrong when I compared it to what I was feeling with him. He'd laugh, and I would want to kiss him. He'd look sad, and I'd want to kiss him better. He'd play with his pen, and I would want to hold his hand. He would scratch his head, and I would want to run my fingers through his hair. I would flirt a little, and he'd flirt a little back, and I would be driven crazy with not knowing whether he was just being friendly, or whether he was being decidedly more than friendly. When he kissed me one day, I had the worst butterflies in my stomach, like every one which had ever lived decided to come to life in there. After that, every time he grabbed my hand, I felt like I was on a plane of happiness above everyone else's. Of course, it wasn't till the sex that he actually blew my mind," Leroy said, chuckling as Rachel sputtered and made a face.

"Papa! Too much information! Way too much!"

"Well, baby girl, you had this dreamy look on your face. I had to make sure you were listening!"

"I was listening," Rachel said defensively and Leroy chuckled again.

"For the record, he'd thoroughly blown my mind before we even got close to sex."

"Ok, Papa, you're doing it again. No child wants to know about their parents' sex life. It's mentally scarring."

Leroy laughed yet again, and kissed his daughter on the forehead as she blushed. He loved making her embarrassed; it reminded him that despite her womanly looks and the fact she was almost legally an adult, she was still his baby girl. A silence settled between them, Rachel staring out the window at the moon, eyes fogged over, thinking of only she knew what, while Leroy stared at the floor, recalling those college days with Hiram and replaying the life they'd built together since then.

"Were you ever confused about him?" Rachel asked, breaking the silence after a few moments.

"All the time," Leroy answered, looking at her, "I didn't know if I was in love, or just infatuated, but looking back, I think deep down I always knew. Infatuation was when you couldn't get someone off your mind, and would always look for them and try be near them, whereas with love, you could be a hundred miles away, but as long as you knew they were safe somewhere, you were happy."

"Hmm," Rachel said, thinking. Leroy smiled at the girl, so obviously trying to work out the complex mess that was her heart.

"Honey, if Finn's the One, you'll know," he said, "personally, baby girl, and I know you don't like me talking like this, but personally, I don't think he's the one for you. I don't think any of the boys you've brought home have been the One. None of them made you smile the way your daddy makes me smile, and if they don't do that, then I know they're not for you. When you were with them, you never had that look on your face, like you're living in your own reality, which is brighter and happier than everyone else's. And you know something, honey? You deserve that. Everyone deserves that. Just don't be one of those people who settles before they can find it."

Rachel didn't respond, just continued staring out the window at the moon. Leroy was worried; Rachel wasn't the type to get moody and contemplative about her relationships. And she'd been in love with that Finn boy for so long, now, he almost wanted to believe that he was the One for Rachel. But he knew Finn wasn't. He hadn't changed Rachel for the better, he hadn't made her the happiest girl in the world - he'd broken her heart. Leroy just couldn't have that for his baby girl. He wanted to tell her that, to help her out of a relationship which wasn't right for her, but he couldn't; it was her lesson to learn, and the only way to learn it was the hard way, with all the heartbreak that it involved. Sensing that he wasn't needed anymore, he kissed her on her forehead again, warning her not to stay up too much longer, considering the time.

"Hey Papa," Rachel called as he opened the door, "for the record, that was the best bed time story ever."

"Goodnight baby girl," he grinned as he pulled the door closed behind him, leaving the girl to her silent contemplation.

Rachel sighed as her Papa left, leaving her with more to think about. As helpful as his answers had been, it didn't make things easier for her. So, those feelings she felt for Quinn sounded a lot like the ones her dads had for each other, but could she accept the reality of being with the girl? She wasn't sure. And, as much as it had always upset her when either of her fathers expressed an opinion about her boyfriends different from her own, she could see that this time, Leroy had a point; she could feel it. She growled in frustration to the empty room. Why did it have to be so hard to work out who you should be with?

There were only two choices, really: the boy she was comfortable with, or the girl who set her heart racing. Finn was wonderful; he was supportive when she needed him, and a great person to hug. She felt safe with him, like the whole world could be collapsing and he'd be there to hold her, protecting her with his sheer bulk. But Quinn was different. Quinn invited Rachel to the dark side of life, into the things she'd never thought she'd experience: biker bars and breaking into schools, lying on the grass with wine, or riding on the backs of motorcycles under the light of the moon. As much as she tried to stop it, every time she thought of Finn, her thoughts drifted, until they eventually settled on Quinn; it told her much more than she wanted to know.

Rachel wanted to be in love with Finn, and only Finn. She wasn't supposed to be in love with Quinn; she was supposed to be lusting after her - getting butterflies and a tingling in her veins just wasn't supposed to happen if you were lusting after someone, and it frustrated Rachel to no end that it was happening with Quinn. She tried to think of Finn, with his goofy smile and awkward movements, the way he smelled and the way he kissed. She desperately tried not to think of Quinn, with her pink hair and oozing confidence, tried not to remember having her arms around her, or the warmth of her body as they sat on the bike, or the taste of her lips, on the football field, in the janitor's closet, after their date. But the taste still lingered on Rachel's own lips, making it difficult for her to ignore. And even if it wasn't there, she was sure the memory of each of those kisses would flare brightly in her mind, overshadowing every single other ones of her thoughts.

She groaned and banged the back of her head lightly against the wall. She couldn't lie to herself, especially not after her conversation with Papa Leroy. She had to admit it. She took a breath, trying to calm her sudden nerves, steeling herself against the truth; she was in love with Quinn Fabray. How it happened, she had no idea; whether it had been all the little things over the years, from the conversations, the arguments, the painful truths, they way Quinn looked at her, even when she was telling her that there was no way she'd be joining Glee club again, the lie visible in her eyes, even as her manner tried to hide it while she held the cigarette which burned in her hand, unsmoked. Maybe the answer lay in how she cared about Quinn, why she had always gone after her when the other girl was hurt, trying to offer support even when it wasn't welcome. Rachel hugged the pink journal to her chest, the poem of Errant all but forgotten; why was love so confusing?

And Finn, well, Rachel loved Finn. But not the way she loved Quinn. If she stayed with Finn, she recognised that she would be settling; a not at all happy ending for a girl with Broadway dreams. She wanted that 'lived happily ever after' ending, and she wasn't going to get it with Finn, as much as she longed for it. Quinn made her think that it was achievable, if they could make their relationship work, and after one date, Rachel was fairly certain that it could work between them. The question was: would Quinn want a relationship? She hadn't sounded the most impressed when Rachel told her that she preferred them to date; a full relationship might be more than the pink haired girl was willing to handle. The thought sent Rachel into fits of anxiety; she couldn't have Quinn turn her back on her - it would kill her.

And with that single thought, the thought of having a life without Quinn Fabray, Rachel Berry knew; she couldn't do it. Applying the same thought to Finn, she realised that she could, that she had in fact, already tried to, last year, but she couldn't survive it with Quinn. She knew then, with more certainty that she had ever possessed before, that she was in love with Quinn Fabray. The epiphany struck Rachel with a force that settled her nerves, as though the thought, which had been flying around before, intangible and ghostlike, had suddenly become solid, something for her to grab onto when she was drowning; and drowning she was, in her confusion and fear about her feelings - love was the one thing she could count on, even if she wasn't sure about it being reciprocated.

Settled, her emotions somewhat sorted through and categorised, Rachel made herself ready for sleep, decided upon a course of action for tomorrow. The last thought which drifted through her hazed mind was the vague notion that if everything failed, then at least in a year's time, she would be in New York, away from it all - if living a life without Quinn hadn't shattered her first.

**A/N: so, Rachel is beginning to realise exactly how she feels. Is she going to come out with it and be honest with everyone? or keep it to herself?**

**I haven't edited this one, so please forgive me if there are any errors. **


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Sorry about a lack of updates! I couldn't get this chapter to feel right. This is about the fifth time I've written it, but it finally feels like it's right. Sorry about the wait though.  
>Enjoy!<strong>

So there she was, Rachel Berry, gazing out the window of History, attempting to recall how she'd gotten to this point. Her thoughts did not follow the line she wanted them to - they always drifted to black t-shirts and denim jackets, the growl of motorcycles, and to hints of pink in a sea of heads. Rachel woke up with a single thought, spent her day exploring every facet of that thought in her mind, went to bed still thinking about it, and dreams, when she remembered them, were of the same. It consumed her, completely, from inside out, robbing her of her other passions and interests, save one - that of Broadway, for nothing could dampen her Broadway dream. And yet, Rachel would have it no other way. In her mind, another way didn't exist.

But she hadn't spoken to her. Not for days. She frowned and let out a deepfelt sigh. It wasn't because she didn't want to - she did - so very, very desperately. Rachel didn't know where to begin. She wanted another date with Quinn; she wanted more of that flirtatious conversation, more of that half smirk that she found so incredibly sexy on the other girl, she wanted many more of those kisses, so much so that the thought of them drove her mad. But there was an obstacle; a gigantic six foot-something obstacle, to be more to the point, and he was sitting next to her, tapping his pen on his desk, no more paying attention to the lesson than Rachel was.

It should be easy, she thought, to be with the person you loved. Yet, the more she fell in love, the more difficult it became. Finn was the most obvious of the barriers separating Rachel from Quinn. He'd pursued her, even after she told him she wasn't interested - seeing the lie in her heart better than she herself - and she couldn't break his heart after that. She could be ruthless when called for, but she wasn't cruel; she didn't have it in her to be. But the boy she was sitting next to her was not the person she wanted to be with. That was Quinn Fabray, the diamond in the dust.

But Finn was not going to so easily let her go. He cared for her - even if his way of showing it was terrible. He didn't quite understand the concept of romance; watching a football match from the Hummel's couch was not the perfect date. The majority of the time, Rachel slipped out, opting to instead spend some time with Kurt. At half time, Finn would come in, a dazed look splayed across his features, asking how Rachel could have left without telling him. Kurt and Rachel would roll their eyes, and Finn would go back to watch the rest of the game. It was their weekend ritual.

Right away, Rachel had noticed the difference between her dates with Finn and her date with Quinn. Quinn was attentive, gentle, yet rough, pushing Rachel to the boundaries of her comfort, but in a good way, and was altogether was more romantic than the boy sitting next to Rachel, still tapping out a tune with is pen. Rachel didn't have the first idea of how she was going to break the news to him that she was in love with his ex girlfriend; she imagined he wouldn't take it too well.

She sighed as the bell rang, echoing across the school, putting a temporary end to innumerable students' torment. Finn and Rachel parted at the door, he giving her a quick kiss on the cheek, the first shadow of his stubble grazing her lightly. She didn't spare a glance at his retreating figure; her eyes, which started to watch him go, were caught by something else.

Leaning against the lockers as if she'd been waiting patiently for Rachel to emerge from class, Quinn stood. Rachel had the feeling that the former Cheerio hadn't gone to her own class; she seldom did these days. Rachel quickly slid her eyes away, turning her back on the girl and hurrying down the corridor. Even among the din of other students, she could hear the distinctive click of Doc Martens rapidly approaching from behind. She scurried faster, but the clicks increased speed with her.

"Rachel!" Quinn called, "Rachel, stop! Berry, I'm talking to you!"

Rachel pretended not to hear, even as other students turned to stare at the two of them. Their eyes burned holes in Rachel's clothes. She wished they would look away; but this was a spectacle they'd never seen before - Quinn Fabray, turned punk, running down the hallway after none other than Rachel Berry. No one wanted to miss the confrontation, whatever it was about this time. Whispers picked up, blazing after Rachel; she felt she was running from an entire swarm of bees, not just the pink haired girl.

She almost jumped a foot in the air when a hand grabbed hold of her upper arm. A glance at the short, black painted fingernails told her all she needed to know, and her heart sunk.

"Goddamn it, Rachel, what the hell is going on with you?" Quinn growled into her ear, leading off the corridor and away from the curious eyes, into an empty classroom. "Talk."

"About what?" Rachel said, crossing her arms in defiance. She hoped to put off the inevitable.

"The weather," Quinn growled again, voice laced with sarcasm, "what do you think?"

"I think I don't like being manhandled and dragged into a classroom, Quinn Fabray," Rachel said, holding her head high. She was not going to be belittled.

"Funny. You enjoyed being manhandled and dragged into the janitor's closet the other day," Quinn returned.

"There weren't people watching!" Rachel cried, turning red. Quinn was right; she _had_ enjoyed that foray in the closet.

"Oh, so it's ok, as long as we do everything on your terms? Well, damnit Berry, maybe I don't like your terms! How do you think I like being ignored and avoided?"

"I wasn't. I didn't. I…I'm sorry," Rachel stammered. She was going to say that she hadn't been avoiding Quinn, but couldn't. That was too big of a lie.

"Like hell you are," Quinn muttered, dropping her defensive stance and leaning her weight against the teacher's table. She stared at the floor. Rachel felt her heart crack within her chest. All that time, she was protecting herself, not realising the effects her actions were having on the other girl. Now, she saw them before her in striking clarity. Quinn normally wore a mask, a persona bigger than herself, but right now, that mask lay discarded somewhere on the floor, revealing the girl within. And that girl was hurting.

"Quinn, I really am sorry," Rachel repeated, this time with much more sincerity.

"You know, for a second there on our date, I thought 'this one's different. She won't leave you like all the rest' but there you went, proving me wrong. Just tell me, what did I do?" Quinn said, finally meeting Rachel's eyes - they were glossy with unshed tears. Rachel's heart cracked further and a lump formed in her throat. She swallowed it away with several large gulps of air, at the same time casting about for the best explanation. Quinn saw her struggle.

"What is it? Is it the hair? Is it the attitude? The nosering? The bike? It's the damn bike, isn't it? God, I fucking knew it! I knew I shouldn't have taken you on it!" she exasperated in mutters, furious with herself. She ran a hand through her hair as she stressed, mussing it more than it already was.

"Quinn. Quinn!" Rachel yelled, grabbing the girl's hands to get her attention, "it wasn't the bike. Or the hair, or the piercing, or any of it. It's not you at all. You're perfect."

Quinn scoffed, "yeah right. Perfect. Good one, Berry."

"Will you listen!" Rachel exclaimed in her own exasperation, "you _are_ perfect. I'm the problem here. I need to work some things out. But I want to be with you, Quinn."

"Then why have you been avoiding me? Be with me if that's what you want. What are you running from?" she asked. But as soon as the words left her mouth, a change came over her demeanour. "It's Finn, isn't it? Are you still in love with him?"

"No," Rachel answered immediately, "no, I'm not in love with him. I'm not sure I ever was. I love him, but whether I was actually _in love_ with him, I'm not sure, but I don't think I was. But yes, he's the reason for our continued existence apart from each other."

"What's the problem then? You don't love him, so end things with him," Quinn said, as if the solution was obvious.

"I wish it were that easy," Rachel muttered.

"It is that easy! You have to tell him."

"He'll fight it."

"So what? It's your choice. He has to respect that."

"It'll break his heart," Rachel said, voice soft.

"And right now, he's breaking yours. And don't even talk to me about all the times he's hurt you in the past. His happiness shouldn't matter to you more than your own, because believe me, Rachel, yours has never mattered to him more than his own. Baby, you have to do what's right for you," Quinn urged, squeezing Rachel's hands. Rachel smiled a little at the endearment which flowed so easily from Quinn's lips and settled so comfortably on her own ears. She knew Quinn was right, but it wasn't that simple. Her conscience weighed on her shoulders, burdening her with guilt. A tear trickle down her face. Quinn wiped it away, then pulled her into a hug.

"It'll be ok. I'm here for you," she whispered. Rachel broke. She clung to the other girl for dear life. If she hadn't already known that Finn wasn't the right one for her, those words would have put her in no doubt. They were words Finn had never uttered to her, not once. And they made a huge difference. With Finn, it was all about him; from 'The Kiss That Missed', to their dates, even their conversations. And with four words, Quinn had changed that. In four words, she made it about Rachel, and for the first time, Rachel felt that she was the important one. She buried her face in the other girl's shoulder, and hugged tighter; she needed to know it was true. Quinn replied in kind, the reassurance Rachel needed.

They didn't need words, they had bodies - every sentiment revealed via subtle movements and expressions, completely understood by the other. A hug was no longer a hug, but an expression of love. A caress by dancing fingers across bare flesh became a display of affection. These movements were given and received, intricate choreography, informative, yet subtle. At that moment, neither girl needed anything more.

Rachel breathed in one last breath of Quinn's fragrance, letting it fill her nostrils and lungs. She pushed her body off the other girl's, but caught her hands in her own; she wasn't ready to lose all contact.

"You're right. Finn and I, we're not right. I've known it all along. I just didn't want to admit it. I have to tell him. I have to end it."

"And I'll be right there beside you," Quinn affirmed, nodding.

"Thank you."

"Now?"

"No. Later, after Glee," Rachel said, resolute determination in her eyes. Quinn nodded again.

The day flew by once the decision was made. Too fast, in Rachel's mind; she needed time, always more time, she needed to pick her words right. She spent classes scribbling a preparation speech instead of taking notes, crossing out, rewriting, then crossing out again. The best words eluded her. But Glee came and ended, and Rachel was left with a tattered sheet of notebook paper, full of incomplete sentences, so scribbled out on that there were holes in some places. They were like the puncture wounds on her heart, marking the guilt she was going to bear for all time.

"Finn, can we talk?" she said to the boy as everyone filed out of the choir room. Quinn settled on the piano stool which the pianist, Brad, had just vacated. She'd gotten comfortable when Rachel waved her to close the door behind the last straggler, Santana, glancing over her shoulder at the trio of them. Quinn gestured the Latina on with a wave of her hand. The door clicked shut and Quinn leant against it.

"What's going on? Why is Quinn here?" Finn asked, a frown marking his features.

"I think you should sit down," Rachel said, "we need to talk."

"Uh, ok. But I still don't get why Quinn's here."

"She's moral support," Rachel explained quickly, sparing a glance for the girl. Her stomach was a bunch of knots, all of a sudden.

"Rachel, what's going on?" Finn asked again, looking from one girl to the other. He didn't like Quinn's presence. Since when were Quinn and Rachel friends, anyway?

"Finn," Rachel said, then stopped. In her hands she clutched the paper with the half prepared speech on it. It felt utterly useless now. She could barely believe that she thought she could prepare for this by writing a speech. What came over her sometimes. She cleared her throat, getting a nod of encouragement from Quinn.

"Finn, this may come somewhat as a surprise to you, but I feel that you and I, well…you and I, we're just not working out. I think we should leave it while we've still not hurt each other yet," she gushed, hoping the rushed words registered in the boy's mind. He blinked a few times as it sunk in.

"No, Rachel, you can't do this. What about me? Don't I get a say in this? You can't break up with me so suddenly and think I'll have nothing to say about it."

"I'm sorry Finn, but I have to do what's right for me," Rachel said firmly. She was more sure now that the crux of the issue was out in the open. Quinn said nothing.

"No, I won't let you do this! I took you on this amazing date in New York, I kissed you in front of a thousand people to prove I loved you. And you promised me that we could have this year. You promised! You're just gonna break your word like that?" he fumed.

"You took me on a date I tried to avoid, then ran out on you on. And then you kissed me anyway. And we lost, Finn. We lost! I'm not sure it was worth it, in retrospect."

"What? Are you even listening to yourself? The kiss wasn't worth it? Rachel, don't you get it? I would lose a million competitions to kiss you like that again. It was amazing; the Superman of ki-"

"Finn, stop! It's not just the competition, or the kiss. It's everything. People expect us to fight in the hallway. The other day people stopped and stared because they thought I was waiting to have another fight with you. How can you think that that's right. It's not. This relationship isn't healthy. I'm sorry, Finn, but I can't do it anymore. It's not right. For either of us. You deserve someone you're not going to fight with all the time, who understands football and all that other stuff. And I deserve better too."

"What the hell's wrong with you Rachel?" Finn yelled, getting up and towering over her, "this isn't only about you! And I say you can't do this. I say we aren't breaking up. I can wait till this stupid idea gets out of your head."

"Hey! Don't talk to her like that!" Quinn barked, stepping forward, "you can't even see. This is the exact thing she's talking about. You don't respect her. She deserves someone better than you."

'No one asked you, Fabray. Keep your punk nose the hell out of my business. This is between my girlfriend and me."

"This is between your ex girlfriend and you," Quinn corrected, "and now, me too. You don't get to treat her like that anymore, Hudson."

"Yeah? I don't remember you treating her any better," Finn challenged, taking a step in her direction. Her eyes flashed with regret for a flicker of a second.

"I'm not that girl anymore. But you, you'll always be this boy, trapped in man's body. At least I can grow up, Finn."

"Hey, stop. Finn, that's enough. You too, Quinn," Rachel said, stepping between the two of them. The glowered at each other over her head, but stopped yelling.

"Finn, I'm sorry, but it's over between us. Quinn, go. There's nothing left to say."

Quinn glared one more second before turning on her heel and marching out. Rachel caught the door before it closed, about to follow.

"Rachel, please," Finn pleaded. She stopped in her tracks. She closed her eyes, scrunching them tight, wishing she hadn't heard that. It hurt enough already; this was too much guilt.

"Finn. I can't do this anymore, I'm sorry."

"Rachel, I need you. What am I gonna do without you? I know I'm not the best boyfriend, but I'll try harder. I'll do whatever it takes," he said, desperate.

"We tried. We've tried so many times. Nothing changes, Finn. You're always you and I'm always me. We can't change. We just have to accept that we aren't right for each other. So we have to let it go. It's too destructive."

"That's it? Not eve another chance?"

"I'm sorry," Rachel said, shaking her head, then walked out. There was nothing more to be gained from the conversation. Quinn waited down the hall. She opened her mouth when Rachel approached.

"Not now, Quinn," Rachel said, cutting her off. Quinn closed her mouth, silently shadowing the brunette's footsteps. She walked briskly, as if to keep a meeting for which she was running late. Or as if she was running from something. Quinn kept pace; she had no other choice.

The school was empty, eerily so. Light still streamed in through the windows, but it wasn't disturbed by hundreds of students. The dust particles caught in the rays drifted whimsically, at their own lazy pace, slowly settling. Until Rachel breezed right through them, Quinn in tow. She led them to the auditorium, through the backstage, then onto the actual stage. The only light came from the open stage door, but even in the dark, Rachel knew where she was going.

"Rachel, what are you doing?" Quinn began to say, but the sentence was stolen from her mouth by a pair of lips, pressing forcefully onto hers. She responded, but relinquished control to the other girl, who pushed her against the piano, so that it stuck into Quinn's lower back. The hands on her hips still wouldn't stop pushing. Quinn let them.

"Rachel," she whispered when they broke apart, "Rachel."

"I needed to make sure. I needed to know I was doing the right thing," Rachel returned, voice soft.

"You are, baby," Quinn assured, voice just as soft, drawing the other girl to her. Rachel leaned her head onto Quinn's shoulder, her arms wrapped around the pink haired girl.

"I know."


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: firstly, an apology to everyone who's been waiting ages for an update on this fic. I hit writer's block for quite a long while there. So, for all that, I do hope that you enjoy it! Any comments you may have are greatly appreciated!**

"I've got something for you," Quinn grinned, holding her clenched fist out to Rachel, who curious, held out her hand to receive whatever Quinn was holding.

"What is it?" she asked, glancing down at the paper Quinn had given her.

"Open it."

_Kissing fingertips,  
>Matching mouths,<br>Tracing tongues -  
>Meeting, again and again<br>For a taste of perfection.  
>If I should name it,<br>I would call it Heaven._

"A poem? Did you write it?" Rachel quizzed, looking at the pink haired girl with curiosity; she had no idea that Quinn wrote poetry.

"What? No, of course not. It's an Errant piece," Quinn stated, abashed at Rachel's question. She stared at the paper, scrunched and tattered in the other girl's hand. Rachel too stared at it; at least it made sense now - Errant wrote it, not Quinn. Rachel was touched that Quinn would give this to her, considering that most people thought her wanting to find Errant was a stupid obsession not worth any time or effort.

"Thank you, Quinn. I appreciate it. But where did you find it? I've never heard anything about this poem."

"Boys' locker room. I was trying to find Puck, and it was written on one of the lockers, so I wrote it down for you. I remember you're still trying to figure out who it is. Any closer yet?"

"Not yet. But I feel like I should know by now. I feel like at some level, I do know, but just haven't realised it yet. Am I making sense?"

"Not at all," Quinn teased, laughing at the brunette who was still frowning at the paper with the poem on it.

"Hush, you," Rachel mock glared, before letting her face fall into seriousness, "sounds like Errant's in love."

"Yeah, it does. Good for them, I say," Quinn stated, and Rachel nodded. While she was glad to hear that life was working out for Errant, she wasn't delighted that this new piece was giving her no information about who Errant was. It was an identity crisis more problematic to her than the wizard's in Wicked, and that had been problematic; she'd almost fainted in despair when she found out that he was Elphaba's real father, because he was the reason she was ostracised. Rachel was eleven years old at the time and had a very strict sense of what how a parent should treat their biological child, not to mention she related to Elphie more than any other character in a Broadway show. And now she had her own wizard of Oz, ostracising her from her peers because she was so intent on discovering their identity. Thinking about it made her head hurt.

"Rachel. Hey, hello! Is there anyone home in there?" Quinn asked, waving a hand in front of Rachel's face.

"What? Sorry, I wasn't listening."

"Yeah, I noticed," Quinn said with affection, "I asked you if everything was ok, you know, between you and Finn."

Rachel thought. _Was_ everything ok with Finn? They hadn't spoken since she broke up with him. He'd avoided her during class, avoided her in Glee, made sure not to look at her in the hallways, even though she was trying to catch his eye, just to make sure that they were ok, that he didn't hate her; she couldn't stand it if he hated her. She guessed that meant that they weren't really ok, but that maybe, just maybe, they would be. Looking at Quinn, she shrugged. The pink haired girl nodded. That was all; no pushing for a proper response, no words of sympathy, no jibs at the boy - just a nod to show that she understood. Rachel didn't need anything else, she realised. She leaned forward and kissed Quinn on the lips. Quinn wrapped her arms around Rachel's waist.

"Public displays of affection already?" she whispered into the brunette's ear. She could feel Rachel's breath tickle her cheek as she let out a nervous laugh.

"Yes."

"I'm glad," she smiled, and reciprocated the kiss. She felt something jab her hard in the back, right between her shoulder blades, and she lurched forward, Rachel's body slamming against the lockers.

"Take that, Homo Explosion!" she heard as she extracted herself from the smaller girl. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a jock hifive his friends and swagger off down the corridor. People stared at Quinn and Rachel, attention drawn to them and what they obviously must have been doing to elicit such a response from the football player.

"Shit," Quinn muttered, "hey, are you alright? Nothing broken, right?" She stayed just long enough to be assured that Rachel was fine, before striding after the boy who'd pushed them. She could hear the scuffle of Rachel's shoes behind her, heard the plea for her to stop, that the boy wasn't worth it, but she had set her sights on him. He had no right to treat them like that.

"Hey!" she called to him as she approached and he and his friends swung around, smirking at her.

"Watch out bro, the dyke looks pretty mad," one of them whispered, loud enough for the whole hall to hear.

"One, it's not ok to call me a dyke," she fumed, "if you want to keep your balls, you'll remember that. Two, it's not fucking ok for you to physically or verbally abuse me, Rachel, or in fact, anyone, because of their sexuality, whatever it might be. Have you got that?"

The jock laughed and stepped forward. He towered over Quinn, and she looked tiny compared to him. Rachel feared for her safety. He lowered his face to hers, smirking. "I'll stop when you stop gaying up my school. Have you got _that_, dyke?"

He backed up, laughing, the sound ringing in Rachel's ears. Quinn's hands darted out, grabbing either side of his open McKinley jacket. She jerked him towards her as she simultaneously threw her head forward. With a heart shuddering crunch, her forehead met his nose. The hall immediately fell silent. The jock staggered backwards, blood spurting from his nose. It ran down his chin in bright red rivulets, dripping off the end, sending splotches crashing to the linoleum floor of the corridor.

"You crazy fucking bitch! What is wrong with you? You broke my damn nose!" he cried. Quinn cocked her head to one side.

"You pushed me and my girlfriend, you threatened me and you used my sexuality as an insult. I think it's fair payback," she replied, crossing her arms, holding her head high.

"Jesus, Quinn. C'mon, go, let's go," Puck said, appearing beside her, pulling her by the arm and leading her down the corridor, with the stares of the other students following them as they passed. Puck's hand shot out and grabbed Rachel too. The three of them walked, eyes staring straight forward, ignoring the people who had just witnessed the entire scene. They burst out into the sunlight. Quinn blinked against it; it was too bright, and it hurt. Her forehead hurt a little too, but it was a good kind of pain; it represented her standing up for herself and for Rachel.

"Nice work, Zombie Apocalypse. You know Blake's going to have the whole team try victimise you now. And Beiste is not going to be happy you broke his nose. We have a game on Saturday," Puck growled, pacing back and forth in front of her. She didn't even raise an eyebrow at him. She was staring at the sky. It was so blue; it made her forget for a second about what just happened. She closed her eyes, letting the sun burn her eyelids, and took a deep breath. As the air filled her lungs, she almost imagined she was floating. She almost imagined that she was happy, that things worked out for her, the way she'd always wanted them to.

"He deserved it," she said, opening her eyes, cutting Puck off mid-stride. He wheeled to face her, eyebrows drawn together, jaw clenched tight. For a split second, she thought he was going to hit her, but then his jaw loosened and a smile broke out.

"Yeah. He did. Nice headbutt dude!" he said, extending a fist to her. She bumped it with her own, laughing in return. Rachel stared at the two of them. It was no wonder they were close. They both revelled in violence and didn't seem to care that Quinn had actually just hurt someone. Sure, it was for her and Quinn's benefit, but it wasn't right.

She sighed. The scene still played in her head. Quinn, the way she headbutted the jock, the sound of his nose breaking. Quinn calling her her girlfriend. Her mouth twitched. She wanted to smile. Her girlfriend. It sounded nice. Natural. Never mind that they had only been on one date. And the kiss in the corridor had come naturally. She hadn't even fretted about it. Quinn made her feel safe, so safe that she momentarily forgot that their school was full of homophobes who would gladly see them flayed for their sexual preferences. Rachel stared at Quinn, the way her hair turned into a halo of pink as the sun entangled its rays within its strands. This time, she did smile. Her girlfriend. It was odd, but it was true. And maybe she wasn't that sorry that Quinn had broken that guy's nose. Maybe it wasn't right, but it wasn't right that he'd insulted and bullied them either.

She stepped forward, fingers reaching, grabbing a hold of Quinn's. The pink haired girl's hand was warm in her own. They curled around hers in reassurance. Rachel placed a kiss on her cheek. That was her thank you. She didn't want to say the words - they would mean that she condoned the violence, which she didn't, but she was thankful for Quinn standing up for them all the same.

"Zombie Apocalypse, what are we going to do with you?" Puck said, shaking his head, running a hand over his mohawk, making it stand straighter. Quinn shrugged, letting go of Rachel's hand and instead wrapping her arms around the smaller girl from behind. Rachel could feel Quinn's chin resting atop her shoulder. She suppressed a jump of surprise when she felt lips being pressed to her neck.

"Q? Figgins wants you in his office. Now," a voice said. Three heads turned to see Sue Sylvester standing in the doorway, holding the door open expectantly. She indicated with her head. Inside. Quinn let out a breath. Rachel felt the other girl's chest deflate, as it was pressed against her back. Then her lips were being pressed to Rachel's cheek, and she was gone, slinking into the school, ducking under Sue's arm. The door closed shut, cutting Rachel off from her.

"It's not good, is it, if Figgins wants to see her?" she murmured. Puck moved closer to her, putting his arm around her shoulders.

"No. It's not. Get in there Rachel. She might need you."

And before Puck could even take another breath, Rachel was off, pulling the door open, running down the corridor. She took a sharp right, almost falling over as her feet slipped on the floor. She scrambled, bumping her shoulder hard into someone as she went.

"Ow! Rachel! Rachel?" she heard. Another pair of feet were running through the corridor, chasing her, "hey, Rachel, hold on. What's wrong?"

It was Kurt. She tried to break free, but the grip on her arm was strong. Kurt was a lot stronger than people thought he was.

"I have to go. Figgins is talking to Quinn. I have to be there!"

"Yeah, we heard. She broke that guy's nose. What's his name?"

"Blake," Santana offered, popping up beside them. She had a smirk on her face as she looked at Rachel. "So, Berry, you unpressed Quinn's lemon. Good for you. And now, as rumour has it, Figgins is going to expel her for breaking that asshole's nose as she tried to defend the two of you. Too bad she's going to get kicked out for doing something this school needed done."

"She only did what everyone else was too afraid to do!"

"Rachel," Kurt began, "violence isn't the answer. It never is. You saw what happened with Karofsky."

"Stop the violence," Brittany said, coming from behind them and linking her pinkie with Santana's. Rachel bit her tongue. She needed to get to Quinn, but now there were people blocking her way. Her heart was hammering in her chest. Would they really expel Quinn? People had done much worse than her.

"But she was justified! It's not like she attacked him for nothing! He bullied us!"

"We know," Santana said, smiling, "which is why we're going to Figgins' office right now and protesting. Figured you might need some support."

"Oh. Um, I don't know what to say. Thank you."

"We're a family. And family means no one gets left behind," Brittany grinned. Santana looked at her, corner of her mouth upturned as she tried not to smile. But she couldn't help it.

"Babe, you're quoting Lilo and Stitch again," she said. Two pairs of eyebrows shot up. Santana frowned at them. "What? If you and Q can be out, then I can too," she shrugged. Kurt giggled and bounced up and down in excitement. Rachel smiled, despite herself. It felt like all the loose strings were finally coming together.

"Ok. Let's go!" she cried, starting to move down the corridor. But Kurt pulled her back by the arm.

"Not so quick."

"You wouldn't want to leave without us, would you?" Mercedes said, the rest of the Glee club in tow. They were grinning, each and all. Rachel felt a wave of pride swell through her, only for it to be dampened when she realised one member was conspicuously missing. She turned to Kurt.

"We couldn't convince him," he muttered, knowing what the question would be before it even left Rachel's mouth. She bit her lip, and nodded. It made sense.

"Cream pie pastry's too busy wallowing over another failed relationship. Now, can we go, or are we going to let Fabray get her stupid self kicked out?" Santana urged, pulling Rachel along. Rachel took the lead, striding down the corridor, the rest of the Glee club following, like a processional march. People's eyes followed them as they walked, Rachel in the front, followed by the two cheerleaders, Kurt and Mercedes, then Mike, Tina, and Artie, pushed along by Puck. No one dared to join them. They were from the Glee club. No one would dare be caught dead with them. But they had each other. Like Brittany had said, they were a family, which was why they were walking to Figgins' office, ready to support Quinn and her actions.

They burst through the glass doors, filing into the anteroom before the principal's office, glaring at him through the glass wall. Rachel could see the back of Quinn's head. There was someone sitting next to her, Mr Shue, she guessed. Figgins was talking, but they couldn't hear the words from their side of the wall. Steeling herself, Rachel pushed open the door to his office and strode in, chin held aloft, eyes trained on Figgins in defiance.

"Rachel, you can't be in here," Mr Shuester said, getting to his feet. On the other side of the desk, Figgins looked absolutely petrified at this suddenly bombardment of students in his office, most of whom had been there before. "Guys. Guys! You can't just come interrupting an important meeting like this! You all have to leave."

"Mr Shue, we're not leaving. Now, I think I speak for us all when I say that we think Quinn's being here is unfair and that she shouldn't be expelled for breaking a guy's nose when he was being a bully," Rachel said, and her statement was followed by nods from the rest of her friends. "Mr Shue, when the school can't stick up for us, then we have to stick up for ourselves. Quinn should be applauded for what she did, not condemned."

"Yes, Mr Shue, I have to agree with Rachel. When I was bullied, no one could do anything to help me, and I couldn't do it on my own. I had to move schools. That wasn't fair to me. I could only come back when it was safe for me, and what made is safe wasn't the teachers, or any of the staff, but the students, the Bully Whips," Kurt added, getting more nods from the group.

"You're welcome," Santana preened.

"Yeah, and San and I can't come out as girlfriends because it's not safe," Brittany piped up, causing several pairs of eyes to swivel to her and Santana. Santana leaned in closer to Brittany, quietly slipping her hand into the blonde's.

"And we want to," she muttered.

"Basically, Mr Shue, we want this to stop, and we aren't going to let Quinn get kicked out because she gave some guy what was coming to him," Puck said. Mr Shuester sighed, and looked to Figgins. The principal was staring at them, gripping the edge of his desk. He coughed before he spoke, and when the words came out, they were a splutter at first, as though his tongue wouldn't cooperate.

"The fact of the matter is that Quinn has physically abused another student, and he has had to be hospitalised to have his broken nose tended to. His parents are threatening to sue the school. I have no choice but to expel her!"

"I'm not going to apologise," Quinn growled.

"You shouldn't have to apologise. He should have to apologise! Can't you see that what he did was wrong! He had no right to push us around, nor did he have a right to verbally insult Quinn. Mr Shue, can't you do anything about this?" Rachel asked, turning to the man. He threw up his hands, shrugging and shaking his head.

"I don't know what you want me to do, Rachel. It's not my decision."

"I'm sorry, but my hands are tied. She has to go. It's that or the school has to pay money to that boy's parents that it doesn't have! Do you know what that means? It means no toilet paper, it means worse food and it means we'll have to fire the janitor! It means no more Glee club!"

All eyes were on Figgins now, narrowed at him in anger. All except those of Shuester and Quinn; the former were downcast in resignation, and the latter were hard, but not angry. She got up, pushing the chair back so that it scraped across the floor. Figgins winced at the piercing sound.

"Fine," she said, "I'll go."

"No, no! Quinn, you can't just give up! If you give up now, things will never get better for us here!" Rachel exclaimed.

"Quinn, if I may, you're throwing away a chance at changing this place. Think it through before you walk out of this office and lose it forever," Kurt interrupted, placing a gentle hand on Quinn's arm. She smiled at him, but shook her head. Rachel looked at her, this pink haired girl, about to take the fall for something she didn't deserve to take the fall for. She grabbed her hand.

"Quinn. Please. Please!"

"No. Rachel, weren't you listening? If I stay, you lose Glee. I'm not letting that happen."

"But Quinn!"

"No! That's not something I'm letting any of you sacrifice. It means too much. Without it, none of us would be standing here. Puck would still be throwing Kurt into the dumpster and locking Artie in the portable toilets. Tina would still be quiet. Mike would never have danced. Santana and Brittany would never have found the courage to admit out loud that they loved each other. And you, you would never have gotten to New York if it weren't for Glee. So don't you _dare_ think about giving it up just so I can stay at this school," Quinn said with such passion that for a moment, they were all taken aback. "Don't do anything stupid," she added.

"Like what?"

"Like get yourselves expelled. Or follow me out."

"Quinn," Rachel began.

"No, shhh. Listen to me," she said, tugging the brunette's hand. She lowered her head a little so that her hazel eyes met Rachel's brown ones. "You do me a favour. Win Nationals this year. All of you. Practice harder than you ever have before. Don't leave it to the last minute like you did last year. And Finn, keep your tongue out of my girlfriend's mouth."

All of them swung around to see Finn, his tall frame leaning against the door, arms crossed over his chest. He nodded.

"Finn! You came," Tina said, voicing the thoughts of everyone in the room.

"Yeah. A good leader doesn't abandon his team when they need him."

"Glad you finally realised that. Remember it," Quinn commanded, her voice full of the authority she perfected when she was in the Cheerios.

"I will."

"Kick butt at Nationals, you guys. I'll be there to cheer you on. I promise. Anyway, I have a locker to clear out, a school to leave and a job to find, so I'd better go," Quinn finished, the finality in her voice apparent. And with that, she pushed past the others and walked out into the corridor. They watched her from behind the glass wall as she went her own way, yet again. There was a collective slump, the fight going from each of them as they realised they'd lost. Rachel wasn't going to let Quinn go on her own, so she pushed through her fellow glee clubbers, and rushed towards Quinn's locker, where she found the girl, pushing the contents of the metal box into her backpack.

Rachel leaned her shoulder against the locker next to Quinn's, watching her pack. Neither of them said anything. Rachel felt as though she should, but couldn't quite find the right place to start. Instead, she reached out, and put her hand over the pink haired girl's. Quinn paused in her ministrations and looked at her, hazel eyes glossy with unshed tears. She blinked, and one escaped, landing on her cheek. Rachel reached up with her other hand and wiped it away with her thumb. Then she kissed Quinn on the forehead. Not a quick kiss, but one where she pressed her lips into the taught flesh, communicating her feelings through it. Quinn sighed when Rachel moved away. She rested her head on the shorter girl's shoulder, letting her hold her in a comforting embrace.

Rachel wrapped her arms around the back of the other girl's neck, her face finding the crevice between Quinn's shoulder and neck, and nestling there. She could smell the other girl there; not the perfume or the deodorant, but Quinn, free of artificial fragrances. She smelt clean, like soap, and Rachel let the fragrance fill her nostrils, knowing that it was the last time she was going to get to do that on school grounds.

"I miss you already," she murmured.

"But I'm still here," Quinn whispered back, hugging Rachel tighter.

"Not for long."

'No. Not for long."

The bell rang, but they ignored it. Students pushed past, but they ignored them too. This moment wasn't about all those other people, it was about them, two girls floating in the wide, wide universe, tethered to each other while they had nothing else to hold on to.

"How about," Quinn began, pulling back and wiping her eye, "we go on another date tonight?"

"I think I'd like that. But wasn't I supposed to plan the next date?"

"You were, but we'll ignore that. It's not any fun if we're not spontaneous."

Rachel laughed, nodding her head. She agreed, and they planned to meet later that night. Quinn slammed the locker door shut, sending the rows of lockers vibrating from the force. She'd taken everything worth taking, leaving the stickers on the inside of the door; they didn't mean anything to her anyway. Not really. She grabbed hold of Rachel's hand, entwining her fingers with the brunette's.

"Walk me to Kurt?"

"You mean that as in Cobain, Kurt, don't you?"

"Yep."

"Then yes. I shall."

And so, escorted by her girlfriend, Quinn walked out of the halls of McKinley, her days of being a student ended, and the future enticing and vague and full of possibility opening up before her. She swung Rachel's hand between their two bodies; the gesture was full of joy. Strangely, she didn't feel disappointed at leaving, but elated. A weight had been lifted off her, and she was glad for it. She was going to miss some things; there were always going to be things to miss - but mostly, she was just glad to have it over. Some things were better when they were over.


	9. Chapter 9

Rachel stood at the door of the Fabray house. She bit her lip. Her hand wanted to knock, to rap her knuckles on the varnished wood, but her muscles weren't working to respond. Her arms were held limp at her sides. She felt tiny compared to the door.

She wasn't supposed to be there so early. They hadn't even decided on a venue for their date, but here she was. Quinn had been kicked out of school defending them and Rachel could not help but want to be there for the girl, as much as Quinn probably wanted to be left alone at the moment. She wondered whether Quinn had even told her mother yet; Rachel knew that if it were her, she wouldn't want to say a thing. She'd be too terrified of confessing to her fathers that she'd been kicked out of school. It would be like seeing all their hopes and dreams for her dying right before their eyes; no New York school would take someone kicked out of high school, even if it were for a just reason.

Taking a deep breath, she brought her hand up to the door. With one sharp movement, she let her hand knock on the wood, then again, just for good measure. Straining her ears, she could hear movement one the other side of the door. There was a scuffle and a muted crash, followed by what Rachel was sure was a curse, before the door opened to reveal Quinn standing there, leaning all her weight on one foot.

"Hey."

"Hi. Are you ok? I heard a crash," Rachel enquired, letting worry settle in her question. Quinn gave a small shrug.

"I walked into the stupid umbrella stand. I'll be fine. Come in."

"You're limping!" cried Rachel as she walked into the house. Quinn hobbled, trying not to put pressure onto her injured foot. She waved Rachel off, making her way into the living room, where she collapsed onto the sofa.

"I'm fine. It'll go away in a little while," Quinn assured. But Rachel was having none of it. Taking a nearby chair, she placed it in front of the other girl, ordering her to place her injured foot on it. She then hurried to the kitchen, making several wrong turns in the process. She rummaged around to find a plastic bag - it wasn't quite what she was after but it would do - and put ice into it. She returned it to Quinn who had done what she had been ordered.

"Put it on your foot. It'll help the swelling go down. Do you need anything? I'll get it for you, just stay put. You're not allowed to move until your foot gets better," Rachel commanded, looking at the pink haired girl, who was grinning at her.

"How about a kiss?" she asked sweetly, the mischievous smile curving her lips. Rachel, happy to oblige, even if she resented the cheesiness of it all, bent down and caught those lips in a kiss, feeling the soft skin meld into the shape of her own. A tongue ran its tip over Rachel's lips and she parted her mouth, allowing it entrance. Within seconds, she was desperate for more; she ran a hand along the side of Quinn's body, from her hip up her side, then lifted it to tangle her fingers in the pink hair. They tightened as Quinn's lips left hers and instead found her neck, placing soft kisses on the sensitive flesh. They triggered a shiver down Rachel's spine and she let a little moan escape her voice box. The sound brought her back to reality. She couldn't go too far, not there on the couch, not with Quinn hurt. She pulled away, a light layer of perspiration already having begun to form on the back of her neck and lower back.

"There," Rachel said, as though she had planned for it to go like that all along, "now, we sit until your foot gets better. If you can walk on it in half an hour, we can go on our date. If not, we're going to the hospital."

"I'm fine. I promise," Quinn assured, but Rachel would hear none of it.

"No, if you still can't walk on it, the hospital it is. You might have sprained it or fractured it, or god knows what else. We're not taking chances."

Quinn rolled her eyes, but said nothing more. Rachel was Rachel, and concern was always going to be her default setting. Already, her foot hurt less. The ice was helping.

"You're good with the injury thing," she commented to the brunette.

"Daddy was always clumsy. I learnt how to take care of minor injuries from a young age. Although, I suppose I didn't really need to tell you how to take care of yourself, considering your previous career as a cheerleader," Rachel said, realising that Quinn probably had more experience dealing with injuries on herself than she had. She blushed, feeling her cheeks turn red at the assumption she had made, that Quinn would need help with her foot. But Quinn was smiling at her.

"Being on the Cheerios taught me a lot of things, including how to deal with injury. But it's nice to have someone else fuss over it for once," she grinned and Rachel's heart did a flutter in her chest. She held her breath for a moment, willing it to stop; she couldn't think properly when her body was doing all sorts of strange things. She could barely think at all when Quinn's hazel eyes were trained on her. Luckily, they were now focused on the foot with a bag of ice pressed onto it. Rachel watched the green eyes for any hints of pain, finding that there were none. Maybe Quinn wasn't lying when she said she was fine.

For the first time since entering the house, she looked around. Wood panelled walls enclosed them, and the area was lit by slivers of light coming through the blinds, aided by the incandescent glow from the dim light fixtures on the wall. The couch they were sitting on was elegant, but old; for all its richness, Rachel could see patches where the colour had started to leech out of the fabric, and where the fibres had started to become loose. The Fabrays had expensive taste, she realised, but not for anything modern. The more she observed, the more Rachel felt as though she had walked into a house from a hundred years ago. Everything was old, but most of it was in immaculate condition.

The furniture she could see from her position on the couch was all dark wood, varnished and polished so it would shine. Rachel was certain that if she were to run a finger along any surface in the house, she would find no dust. She was also certain that these pieces of furniture were the best the Fabrays could find in that style; she had no doubt that anything with an imperfection would have immediately been passed over and forgotten.

It surprised her that this was the first time she had visited the Fabray house. Even when she and Quinn had attempted to write a song together the year before, Quinn had always come to her house, or they had collaborated at school. The then-blonde girl had never offered her house as a place to work, and Rachel had never asked; she had been happy doing everything at her own - she was more comfortable there, especially as she and Quinn had had their spots of trouble over the years. The Berry household had been not only more comfortable, but also more convenient, as it was closer to McKinley. She'd never before stopped to wonder why Quinn had never invited anybody over, but the thought arose in her mind now.

"My father has…had…has expensive taste," Quinn said, breaking into Rachel's thoughts, and as she turned, she caught the other girl's hazel eyes watching her.

"Oh," Rachel nodded, at a loss for anything else to say.

"He always thought that pristine vintage furniture was the way to show off our wealth. Maybe it is. I don't know," Quinn shrugged, "It's probably some stupid idea he picked up from trying to sell houses. I like the furniture, but it becomes so oppressive sometimes. It reminds me too much of him. He's everywhere in here, even when he's not here. But we can't sell it. Mom won't, and even if she would, it would mean that we had to buy new furniture, and nothing else would suit this house. So we're stuck with it."

"You haven't forgiven him?"

"For what? Kicking me out of the house? Or cheating on mom? Or for trying to control us all, all the time?" Quinn shot back. Rachel was taken aback. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. So she closed it and looked down at her feet. It didn't sound so bad in words, but the emotion Quinn injected into the questions said more than enough.

She felt a hand on her arm, the light touch making her look up once more. She met the eyes of Quinn, only inches from her own brown ones and she swallowed. Their close proximity was almost terrifying; it took all of Rachel's self control not to lean in and kiss the other girl. Her eyes flickered away and she turned her head a little, but Quinn put her other hand on Rachel's chin and turned it back so that they were eye to eye again. She quickly leant in and her lips found Rachel's. She held them there for a minute, letting the emotion seep through to the other girl, and Rachel, knowing that there was something in that kiss apart from lust, held on, accepting it.

"Sorry. I'm sorry for…" Quinn finished with a hand gesture in the air to make up for the words she couldn't speak. She pressed her forehead against Rachel's, eyes closed. Rachel closed her own, letting herself feel the pressure of the other girl's head pressing into the forefront of her skull. Her arms wound around Quinn, pushing them closer together. She felt Quinn sigh against her, heard the rush of air from her lungs as it escaped into the room. Rachel placed a light kiss on the pink haired girl's nose, then drew back, pulling her arms from around the other girl. Her hip hurt; she'd had to twist into a strange position to hold the other girl, but it was worth it.

Instead, her fingers found Quinn's and slotted between them. Her head sunk onto the other girl's shoulder. She closed her eyes again, trying not to see visions of Russell Fabray in the room telling a sobbing and pregnant Quinn to leave the house, trying not to hear the man's enraged voice ordering Quinn to never return. Her imagination was trying to run away with her, but she wouldn't let it. Quinn had been hurt in this house, and now it was Rachel's turn to be strong for her. Besides, she didn't know how much worse her imagination was making the situation; for all she knew, the scene might not have gone like that at all.

They sat in that silence for a little while, unaware of the pendulous ticking of the grandfather clock from the next room. Finally, a kiss on the top of Rachel's head broke the stillness. She shifted to look at Quinn, who was smiling down at her.

"Has it been half an hour yet?" she asked, and Rachel let out a giggle. She moved and picked the bag of melted ice off the other girl's injured foot. It didn't look very bad. It had a bruise, but it looked no worse than that. Quinn wiggled her toes, sending Rachel into another fit of giggles, this time of surprise.

"Let's see if you can walk on it. And no heroics, Quinn Fabray. If you can't, we're staying right here."

"I thought we were going to the hospital," Quinn teased as she got up.

"It doesn't look very bad. Certainly not broken. There'd be much more swelling if it were," Rachel responded, watching Quinn as the girl's foot hit the floor. She didn't even wince. In fact, she walked the length of the room and back without hesitation. Rachel let out an inaudible sigh of relief; she had really hoped that it was nothing more than a bruise and there was nothing like the relief of knowing that the person you loved wasn't hurt. Well, badly. Quinn grinned at her.

"Tada! So, about that date," she laughed, "are we clear, doctor Berry, to go on it?"

"Not if you keep mocking me!"

"But I worked so hard to plan it!" Quinn mock gasped, eyes wide. Rachel narrowed her eyes at her.

"You were expelled from school less than three hours ago. What kind of date could you possibly have planned in less than three hours that you worked hard on? At this point, anything is hastily thrown together, not meticulously planned."

"We'll see," Quinn grinned, extending a hand to Rachel and pulling her along through the house, up the stairs and into a small bedroom. Rachel raised her eyebrows at the other girl, not wanting to jump to conclusions, but being unable to help it. Quinn let out another laugh when she saw the expression on her girlfriend's face, but didn't say anything, letting Rachel's mind run away with itself. It was more fun that way. Rummaging around in her wardrobe, she pulled out a worn black shirt and threw it at Rachel, who caught it in a tangle. "You're going to need something dark." Rachel's eyes widened further, but pulled the shirt over her white one nevertheless. She felt strange in Quinn's clothes; the shirt was too big, and hung off her small frame. But at the same time, she wanted to bury herself in it and never take it off. It smelt like the other girl and however she moved, the scent of her wafted up to Rachel's nose.

Looking her up and down, Quinn, who was already wearing her customary dark clothing, pronounced Rachel ready and pulled her back down the stairs and to her motorcycle. Rachel had no complaints this time about putting on the helmet and slotting herself on the seat behind Quinn. Instinctively, she wrapped her arms around the other girl when the bike roared to life underneath them. She pressed her cheek into Quinn's back, relishing in the warmth. Rachel watched the world blur by as Quinn sped along the Lima streets, noticing that this time they were heading further into the heart of the city, not the outskirts like their last date. She felt a pang of curiosity, but kept her questions to herself. Quinn wouldn't hear her over the sound of the bike anyway.

They slowed in front of a decrepit building, with flaking paint and boarded up windows. At that point, Rachel almost lost hold of her resolve not to ask any questions, but bit her lip and held back the words which wanted to come spilling out of her mouth. The building looked stable, but abandoned, and for a second, Rachel wondered whether it was the illegal hideout of some sort of gang or drug lord, before realising that Quinn would never take her somewhere that dangerous. The growl of the motorcycle died as Quinn switched off the ignition, and helped Rachel take off her helmet and goggles. Once free of them, Rachel raised her eyebrows at the other girl, waiting for an explanation.

"You'll see," Quinn replied in cryptic response. Taking her hand in her own, she led Rachel toward the front entrance. Rachel's heart beat in terrified anticipation as the door swung open easily. She peered into the dark, not sure what to expect, not sure whether she really wanted to see what was inside. Her steps faltered as she reached the threshold, but Quinn tugged on her hand, spurring her forwards. She felt her eyes go wide as she stepped inside, trying to take in the discrepancy between the inside of the building and the outside. Where the façade was falling apart, the interior was lavish, with red carpet and wood panelled walls, small chandeliers and strategically placed tables. Along one side of the building, an assortment of arcade games stood, some with occupants, brows furrowed in concentration, others with invitingly empty seats. Quinn ignored them all, pulling Rachel along to the small reception desk. The man behind it smiled at them in greeting.

"They're waiting for you," he grinned, flashing yellowing teeth. Rachel suppressed a cringe, clenching her jaw and swallowing. Who were _they_? Quinn nodded and still holding Rachel by the hand, made her way to the back of the building, stopping before a closed door. She put her hand on the door knob, ready to turn it, but paused. She looked at Rachel who looked positively terrified and started to explain.

"Relax, Rachel. There's nothing to be scared of. Behind this door is a small lobby, beyond that is another room, and that's where I'm taking you. It's nothing to worry about. Actually, it's going to be fun. Have you ever played laser tag before?"

Rachel's jaw slackened. Laser tag? She was terrified of being in this abandoned looking building, and all it was was laser tag? She felt ridiculous. She shook her head. She had never played before. The nervousness within her chest eased and she felt lighter. Laser tag. That wasn't so bad. Quinn gave her a light kiss on the forehead, and opened the door. A small group of people awaited them, each wearing vests with various flashing lights. They stared at the pair of them as they walked in.

"About time, Zombie Apocalypse!" a familiar voice cried, it's owner pushing a pack into Quinn's hands, and then another into Rachel's. He grinned at them, white teeth flashing an eerie neon blue, which Rachel realised came from the fluorescent lights on the ceiling. Glancing down, she saw that the white on Puck's Converse shoes were also blue. Quinn giving her a dark shirt to cover her white one suddenly made sense. "Ready to kick some butt?" Puck asked, bouncing on the balls of his feet, rearing to go.

"Just a second. Rachel's never played before," Quinn said. She looked at her girlfriend and helped her slide into her vest. She did up the buckles, explaining as she went. "Basically, it's point and shoot, and try not to get shot. We're the green team, so you have to try shoot anyone who's not green. The team with the most points in the end wins."

"That's it? They're all the rules?" Rachel asked, incredulous. She always thought it was more complicated than that. The more she did things with Quinn, the more she realised that she had an overcomplicated view of the world.

"That's it, babe! Now, ready?" Puck urged.

"Not yet! The rest of the guys haven't met Rachel yet," Quinn said, and quickly shooting out names, did a quick introduction of the other people in the room, and Rachel, though she tried to keep up, knew that she'd already forgotten the names.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," one boy said, his black hair spiked up in various directions, nodding at her. Was it Lucas? Rachel couldn't be sure. She felt a hand on her arm and turned to face Quinn again.

"There are another two teams, a red and a blue, and they're already in there waiting for us. Be careful. Shoot anyone on sight. Try not to get shot. If you are, your pack will go dead for about twenty seconds and you can neither shoot nor be shot. Use that time to hide. Ok? Ready?" and when Rachel nodded, the team simultaneously moved towards the door on the far end of the room. They filed out one by one, disappearing into the dark. Rachel stuck close to Quinn, afraid to lose her, but as soon as they were on the other side of the door, she was gone, and Rachel was left on her own. She turned to her left, scurrying along the wall, then ducking behind a tall partition. She took a moment to think about what she had to do, vague ideas trying to form in her mind a plan. Abruptly, a bell sounded out across the arena and her pack, which had still been dark, lit up. With that, she knew it had begun in earnest.

She peeked out around her partition, and in front of her was a large area, mostly unpopulated by barriers. There were several figures in flashing vests, scrambling to find a better position. Thin lines of red beamed out across the space. She aimed at one in a blue vest and pulled the trigger, watching as the lights circuited out. She realised that the red beams were from the guns and realised she could use that to her advantage. Knowledge was power in this game. She ducked out from her hiding spot, scurrying along to the next one, hoping she was quick enough that no one had had time to shoot her. Glancing down once she'd reached safety, she realised that she was fine; no one had shot her. Relief washed through her. Pointing her gun at a figure in red with her back turned to her, she pulled the trigger again, revelling as the girl's pack when dead. Rachel grinned. This was fun.

She ducked in and out of the dark, shooting and trying to avoid being shot. She groaned every time her pack shut off its lights, but kept in mind the advice Quinn had left her with before they started, and tried to find a good vantage point to start shooting from. She had just found on when, poking the nose of her gun out, almost bashed it into the stomach of someone who had had the same idea of a vantage point. On instinct, Rachel pulled the trigger, but the lights on the other pack didn't go dead. With a pang in her navel, it was, she realised, because the vest was flashing with green lights, the same as her own. She found a familiar set of facial features grinning at her.

"How you finding your first foray into laser tag?" Quinn asked, sidling into the space next to Rachel and nudging her gently with her shoulder.

"It's lots of fun. I can't believe I've never done this before. But you, Quinn Fabray, left me!" Rachel accused, trying to glare at the girl in the dim light.

"There's no safety in numbers in here, Rachel. Right now, with our green flashing lights, we're like signs saying 'shoot me, I'm here!' but that's ok," she grinned, leaning forward, "because it means I get to do this," she said, placing a kiss on Rachel's lips.

"I hate you right now," Rachel growled, but Quinn knew better. They both knew better. Quinn placed another kiss on her lips before ducking out from their spot.

"Gotta go. Meet you on the other side, baby."

Rachel watched her go, not noticing the boy with a red pack approaching from behind another partition. When she did see him, she lifted her gun to shoot, only to find that it was non-functional.

"Damn it."

She waited until it was willing to work again before rushing out and sending beams of red light flying in every direction. Soon enough she was sweating, and kept having to wipe the hair away from her face, where it decided to stick. She paused, trying to form a strategy, when another player came into her space. Quick as she could, she raised the gun and fired, watching as the lights went dead on the blue pack. Not waiting another moment, she fled before the pack restarted itself.

She kept up her non-strategic routine, shooting when she could, pausing for breath when she had the chance; pretending that she wasn't trying to find Quinn again in the dark and steal another kiss. It came as a surprise when the bell rang out again in the space, and the packs when from their single coloured flashing lights to circuiting through red, green and blue. The game was over, and Rachel followed the other figures through the dark back to their starting point. Someone nudged her in the shoulder and she turned to see Puck standing over her.

"Howdy," he grinned.

"Hi."

"So, how'd you go? I think I killed out there. If I don't win, I swear the game's rigged."

"How do we find out?" Rachel asked, frowning. She hadn't really given thought to winning. She focused on the fun of it, shooting and trying not to be shot. Puck took her gun from her hand, and looked down at the back of it. He pointed to a little screen.

"Here. That's your name. You go check it on the board when we get out, and it'll tell you," he said, before going through the door, taking off his vest. She looked down at the screen. _Galahad_ it blinked at her. She imprinted the name on her memory as she hung the vest up on a free hook. When she exited back out into the main room of the building, her eyes raked the scoreboard for the name which was on her gun. A hand found hers, distracting her.

"Fifth," Quinn said, shrugging, "not bad."

"I can't find…oh wait, there. Third!" Rachel exclaimed, finally finding her name on the board. She squealed a little in excitement. Quinn squeezed her hand in pride.

"Are you sure that was your first time?" she laughed. Puck sauntered over to them with a big grin on his face.

"Oh yeah, and guess who's top dog again," he bragged. Quinn punched him in the shoulder with her free hand, "ow! That hurt. You're a mean bitch, Fabray." This time it was Rachel who punched him. "Hey! What the hell?"

"Don't talk about her like that," she glared at the boy. He held up his hands in surrender. Quinn squeezed Rachel's hand again, briefly, then let it go.

"I have to go talk to Ernest," she said, placing a quick kiss on Rachel's cheek, "I'll be back."

"Who's Ernest?" Rachel asked, turning to Puck. He pointed at the man at the reception desk.

"He likes Quinn. She helped him build this place last summer. Every time she plays, he gives her an extra ten minutes in the arena. And free food."

"She helped build it? How? I didn't know she had building skills," Rachel muttered, looking over at the girl with the pink hair. Puck laughed.

"Well, she painted the arena, pretty much on her own. And helped pick the carpets and stuff for in here. So, not really building, but still, Ernest's a good guy, he appreciates it."

"I didn't even know this place existed until today."

"Zombie Apocalypse has a finger in every pie," Puck laughed, "but c'mon, she wants you."

They moved towards Quinn and the complex's owner, Ernest, who smiled at them in greeting. Quinn grabbed Rachel's hand and started pulling her towards a set of stairs that Rachel had missed when they first walked in. Puck didn't follow as they began to climb, and neither did Ernest.

"Be safe!" Puck called from the bottom of the stairs, and Quinn gave him the finger without even looking back. The sound of his laughter chased them as they walked on. Rachel's heart resumed the faster beat it had every time she was with Quinn, and as they climbed higher, she wondered where the girl was leading them. It was dark and she could barely see anything, but Quinn seemed to know where she was going.

They came to a landing, and still pulling her along, Quinn pushed open a door. A rush of cool air hit Rachel's face and the sight of a purple sky greeted her. Time had passed and Rachel hadn't even noticed. Sunset was falling and the sky was tinted with slivers of orange and pink as the sun sank over the unseen horizon. They had emerged onto a balcony, empty save for a single table on the far side. Quinn guided her by the hand over to the table, pulling out the chair for Rachel to sit down and waiting until she was comfortable before taking her own seat. There were unlit candles on the table, and Quinn pulled out a lighter, setting fire to the wick. The flames danced in the slight breeze, but remained lit. Glancing out over the edge of the balcony, Rachel found that she could see the lake. The fiery sunset reflected in its calm water and she could not help but stare into it, mesmerised. She shivered, but not from cold; the night air hadn't cooled yet. It was the picturesque scene before her, the fun she'd had, and her date sitting across from her, chin resting on her knuckles which had caused it.

"You're very good at last minute dates," she murmured, turning to face Quinn, who was smiling at her. Rachel was momentarily taken aback by that smile; it wasn't her ordinary smile, it was the one someone gave to the person they were completely enamoured with - and it was directed at her. Her heart melted in her chest. She felt the sides of her face being pulled into a grin of their own, unbidden, but unstopped; she couldn't help it, she felt loved by Quinn. It seemed the only natural thing to do. She wanted to kiss her, but she was too far away on the other side of the table, so she reached her hand across the space, inviting the pink haired girl to take it. The other girl let out a breath in what might have been a laugh, and accepted the invitation, sliding her warm hand into Rachel's. They sat there for a few moments, not talking, just sitting, acclimatising to the comfort of the other's presence and letting the night fall around them, blanketing their city in a pale purple glow.

"I love you," Quinn whispered, finally breaking the silence, the words cutting into it like a knife through warm butter; soft and smooth and perfectly. Rachel let her eyes drop and her breath come out in a small rush, as though something invisible had torn it from her chest. Her fingers tightened on Quinn's, clutching, grasping, desperate to show the thing she could not yet quite articulate in her head. Quinn's gripped tighter, assuring her that she understood. Rachel raised her eyes again, meeting Quinn's with a shy smile. She loved the other girl too - hadn't she realised that after their first date, sitting in bed, a book of someone else's poetry clutched against her chest? - but she wasn't ready to say it back. This time she wanted to wait for the right moment, the moment when every fibre in her being urged her to say it, and she could no more contain the words than contain a hurricane. That moment wasn't then. Too often she'd rushed in telling someone that she loved them, and every time, it ended with her being hurt. No chances this time, not with Quinn; the girl meant too much to lose in a moment of naïve passion. So she smiled instead, and held Quinn's hand tighter, hoping that the gesture would convey at least some of the things she was feeling. In a flash of inspiration, she brought the other girl's hand up to her lips and kissed it. Quinn grinned.

"So," she said, dispelling the new silence, and assuring Rachel that her lack of verbal response was accepted, "how's your search for Errant going?"

Rachel groaned. She had barely thought about the poet since Quinn had given her the scrunched up piece of paper that morning. Too much had happened and it had become lost in the tide of emotions and events of the day. She reached into her pocket with her free hand and took out the paper. It was even more bedraggled than it had been that morning. She unfolded it and let it lie on the table between them. They both stared at it in the fading light and the flickering shadows cast by the tiny flames from the candles.

"I don't know," Rachel admitted, "sometimes I feel I'm close, that I only need look a little harder and that I'll find them. And other times, I feel so far away, like I'm truly on an impossible search. How are you supposed to find someone based on the words they write? They're so universal, that I think anyone could have written them-"

"But at the same time, they're so specific, they could only have been triggered by specific events in someone's life. Emotions are universal, but the causes are not," Quinn finished. "You want to believe that you can find them by deciphering the events which set the words in motion, what caused Errant to let them drip down the McKinley walls, what would cause her to stain an ugly place with beautiful things."

"Wait. Her?" Rachel asked, cocking her head to one side and gazing at Quinn with a sudden clarity and more intent. The other girl shrugged.

"I always imagined Errant to be a girl."

"But that day in the bathroom, you snapped at me for assuming that," Rachel pointed out, retrieving the day from her memory.

"So you then assumed Errant was a boy. I never said that's what I thought. I was just showing you something you hadn't considered. I still don't know anything more than you do," Quinn replied, playing with the fork on the table, twisting it around and around with the tip of her index finger. Rachel watched the action. She let out a sigh. Quinn was right; she'd jumped to the conclusion that Errant was a boy, simply from listening to Quinn's words that day. The closer she thought she got, the further it away it seemed she actually was.

"Why the sudden interest in my quest?" she finally asked. She'd picked up her own fork now, unconsciously mirroring Quinn's movements, but in the air, twirling the utensil between her fingers. Quinn watched, mesmerised as it spun in her hand. Her tongue darted out to moisten her lips before she replied.

"I'm trying to support my girlfriend in her interests. I'm allowed to," she said with mock defence. Rachel smiled. First giving her the poem, and now this; she liked having someone who didn't think she was crazy - it made a nice change from the rest of her friends, who, though they loved her, most of the time, were never quite as supportive.

"You're obliged to," Rachel teased, poking her tongue out a little at the girl sitting opposite her. Quinn laughed, the sound spinning an intricate web of intimacy around them. She shrugged, a light shrug, almost noncommittal, as if to say 'yes, but I would have anyway'.

"So what happens when you find Errant?" she asked. Rachel frowned. She'd answered that question before, hadn't she? But she shrugged.

"I thought we would write songs together, helping us win at Nationals."

"There's more though, isn't there? Even with your competitive personality, there is a deeper reason than just winning the National singing competition," Quinn said, urging Rachel to speak, but being gentle about it. Rachel nodded, biting her lip. Of course there was.

"I'd hoped that I'd find someone like me. Someone I could talk to, who would understand. Kurt and Mercedes are great, but we get in each other's way; sometimes we're too big divas for our own good. And I thought with Errant it would be different. They'd understand, and be encouraging, and we could talk about our different experiences and be support. Also, Errant seems to have their own issues too, so I thought it could be mutual. But it feels like I'm never going to find out who they are," Rachel answered, finishing her explanation with a heart felt sigh. A memory came drifting back to her, and she raised her eyes to look at Quinn, "oh, and I'm sorry to have to break this to you, but I made Kurt and Mercedes a promise that if I found out who Errant was, I'd marry them. Sorry if that messes up any of your future plans for us."

"What if Errant is a girl?" Quinn gasped, eyes wide in mock horror. Rachel glared at her in return.

"Then I will marry a girl. It's not too difficult to consider, seeing as I'm a date with you," she teased, "but why is that the first question asked when I say that? Kurt's reaction was the same."

"Errant just seems very effeminate," Quinn said, looking down at her empty plate. Rachel narrowed her eyes in genuine suspicion this time. It was a very vague answer; too vague for Quinn.

"Quinn, do you know something that you're not telling me? Because I would really appreciate honesty from you right now," she quipped, extracting her hand from the other girl's and folding her arms across her chest. Quinn looked up at her sharply, both at the loss of contact and the hardness in her voice. Rachel's eyebrows shot up at her, questioning. The pink haired girl leaned back in her chair, creating even more of a distance between them. She shook her head.

"No. I don't."

"Promise. Quinn, promise me that you're not lying," Rachel insisted, keeping hold of the hazel eyes which stared at her in surprise. Quinn nodded.

"I promise."

The tense moment was broken by the appearance of a waiter who wore a black vest over a white shirt, carrying two plates. He set them down on the table, while Quinn and Rachel sat in silence. They watched him, aware that their stares were making him uncomfortable, but too uneasy with each other to break the quiet and resume conversation. They watched as he fumbled filling their glasses with wine, almost spilling it onto the table. Rachel raised her eyes at Quinn over the choice of beverage, but the pink haired girl said nothing. She simply watched and waited. She ran a hand through her hair once, but it was the only indication that there was anything running through her mind. Rachel felt an ache of guilt burning in her chest. She had been too accusatory, she thought, when she had no right to be. She let her eyes wander to the food. There was not a trace of animal product in sight. She smiled a half smile. Vegan; Quinn had remembered.

The pang of guilt returned. She wanted to take Quinn into her arms and apologise, placing kisses on the other girl's jaw line, and promising to never jump to accusatory conclusions again. But she couldn't. The waiter was still there, until being dismissed by a nod from Quinn, quickly scurried back the way he came. They waited until he was gone from sight until they picked up their forks and began eating in silence. Halfway through the second bite, Rachel decided to break the silence.

"Thank you," she said.

"For what?"

"Remembering that I'm a vegan. Not everyone does. Even Finn used to forget."

"Oh. Well, you're welcome.," Quinn answered, looking down at her own food, and shoving another forkful into her mouth.

"Quinn," Rachel began.

"I'm sorry," the other girl interrupted, saying the words Rachel was about to utter. Rachel shook her head. Quinn wasn't supposed to apologise, she'd done nothing wrong. It was her and her stupid insecurity which had made things awkward. This was supposed to be a date, not two people pretending that they were only there for the food.

"It's my fault, not yours. I'm sorry, Quinn. You're actually being supportive, and I appreciate that," Rachel said. Quinn nodded, chewing her mouthful of food. She swallowed before answering.

"It's ok."

Rachel smiled. Quinn smiled. The tension, winding around the two of them, twanging at their slightest movements, snapped, releasing them from its vice grip. They relaxed. The night was beautiful again. And they let it be, embracing it with open arms. They spoke of many things, but avoided the topic of the mysterious poet. Rachel felt that it was too soon to be diving back into that pool; one day she assumed they would talk about it with ease, but she was willing to put it off for the moment.

When Quinn dropped Rachel home at the end of the night, she was tempted to invite her inside. She wanted to curl up next to the other girl and fall asleep in her warmth, her arms wrapped around her own small frame. But the thought of her fathers stopped her. They would, no doubt, still be awake, waiting for her to get home, and she was still not ready to face them with this information. Quinn was her girlfriend, and after this date, Rachel could feel it; the thought, the word no longer sounded strange to her. But she was not ready to come out to the two men who loved her more than any other in the world.

Instead, she kissed Quinn on the lips, long and hard and all the while hoping that her inhibitions would snap within her and she'd pull the other girl by the hand to her bedroom anyway. But she didn't, and when she pulled away, she felt something in her chest loosen; she missed the feel of Quinn's lips on her own already.

"I love you," Quinn said, reiterating the sentiment from earlier in the night. Rachel leant forward and kissed her again, hoping that it would make up for the lack of words on her own part. She took a breath as she leant back. Tomorrow, perhaps, she would yield.


	10. Chapter 10

School without Quinn was…unexciting. Rachel hadn't before realised what a difference the girl had made, whether it had been bullying her in the past, or more recently, smiling at her from across the hall, and pulling her into janitor's closets, passionately kissing her. She missed her. Quinn was her girlfriend, as strange as it still sounded to her, and she felt lonely in the crowded halls of McKinley without her.

To keep herself occupied, Rachel had turned her focus back to her pursuit of Errant, the elusive graffiti poet, but much to her frustration, there was nothing. No whispered rumours of new poems, no lingering chemical smell of permanent markers, no poems written anywhere. The Poet's voice had fallen silent - the quiet stung Rachel, piercing her heart and opening the lonely spaces she'd only just begun to fill. Between the expulsion of Quinn and the absence of Errant, Rachel felt quite alone.

Glee was her refuge. Music became her solace. Singing was her outlet. She felt like the Rachel Berry of old, before life became complicated, fraught with unexpected love and unforeseen obsessions, when music was the one thing that had really mattered, her driving force. Only, it wasn't the same; she wasn't the same. Life moved on, happened, and now she had other considerations, crashing down on her skull every time she left the choir room or the auditorium.

"Are you ok?" and "how you doing?" were words she frequently heard from her fellow Glee clubbers. Even Finn, who had taken the news that his two ex-girlfriends were dating quite well. Several times, Rachel had caught Kurt glaring at Finn, or nodding at him, after which the tall boy would come to talk to her, so she made the assumption that Kurt had spoken to his brother, and talked some sense into him. She was glad. School was hard enough now, without another person to have to avoid. But it still felt somewhat as though someone had died and everyone was trying to make sure that Rachel didn't get too caught in her own grief.

Of course, Quinn was always trying to make sure that she was ok. That afternoon, Quinn came over, and the two of them lay on Rachel's bed. Quinn kissed Rachel's forehead, just above her eyebrow.

"You're quiet," she noted, taking a brown strand of hair between her fingers and letting it flow through them. Rachel didn't speak for a moment.

"There's so much going on. You got expelled, Errant stopped writing, and I'm just here, and I don't know what to do."

Quinn traced a finger down Rachel's cheekbone, then lightly brushed the tip of her index finger over the brunette girl's lips. Her eyes followed her finger, never wavering.

"Why do you have to do something?" she asked, her breath little more than a whisper. Rachel, who had been lying on her back, propped herself up on her elbows so that her eyes would meet Quinn's.

"Because I feel so lost without you there, so unanchored. I don't like not seeing you at school. I miss the excitement of the possibility that I could turn a corner and you'd be there, with all your el rock chick glamour and that little smirk you do every time you see me. I miss that. And I can't even distract myself anymore because that stupid graffiti poet has decided not to graffiti anything, and it's driving me crazy that I'm not getting any closer to finding out who they are because they're not writing anything. How am I supposed to figure it out if there are no clues? Sometimes, Quinn, I wonder why I even bother," Rachel gushed, frustration pouring into her voice, spilling into the air. Quinn kissed Rachel on the lips, soft.

"Rachel Berry, the lone fighter. You never give up. That's why you bother. You can't not. And I'm sorry that I'm not coming back to McKinley, but you get me every other time, don't you?" Quinn smiled, and Rachel nodded in resignation to the truth. "As for Errant, well, I don't know what to say there. Maybe all the clues you need are right in front of you and you just haven't seen them yet."

"Then I must be pretty blind," Rachel muttered darkly.

"Mmm, pretty, definitely, blind, I don't know about," Quinn chuckled. Rachel poked her, jabbing her index finger into her ribs.

"Not funny, Quinn."

"What's not funny is that you're getting so worked up about this Errant person. Don't take this the wrong way, but don't you think you're worrying about it too much?"

"Quinn! I thought you of all people would understand. You're supposed to be supporting me! Rachel cried, moving herself a little further away from Quinn on the bed.

"Rachel, c'mon, I am supporting you. You know I am, but I don't like seeing you get upset by this. It upsets me that you're upset. I think you'd benefit if you didn't take this so seriously," Quinn said, keeping her voice calm, reasonable. She reached a hand out to Rachel, taking the other girl's hand in her own. Rachel felt the squeeze of her fingers and couldn't help squeezing back. She sighed.

"I feel so inadequate, like I would know who Errant was, if only I looked a little harder. But I've looked so hard, Quinn, and I still can't see anything! It makes me feel stupid. That's why I can't give up. I have to find out so I can prove to myself that I'm not stupid or inadequate - that I can achieve things if I try harder," came the confession, tumbling from Rachel and piercing Quinn right in the heart. Quinn's thumb began rubbing little circles on the back of Rachel's hand. She didn't speak. When Rachel looked at her, her hazel eyes were far away in thought. A crease furrowed her forehead, between her eyebrows, and her jaw was locked. It was look of such intensity that Rachel was a little frightened by it. Softly, she called Quinn's name, trying to bring the girl back to the present, out of the depths of her mind and into the familiar comfort of the bedroom. She called again, a little louder, and this time Quinn responded, her eyes focusing and her forehead becoming smooth of the lines of concentration.

"Glad you're back," Rachel smiled. Quinn moved closer, closing the gap Rachel had made between them, and in an instant, Rachel felt the other girl's lips on hers, full, soft, desperate. Rachel let a tiny moan escape as Quinn pushed her back down onto the bed and lifted herself so that her own lithe frame was covering Rachel's small one, pressing firmly into it.

"Rachel," she felt Quinn breathe against her lips, her neck, her collarbone. Over and over, she heard her name, whispered by her girlfriend. There was something in it, some kind of desperation, some kind of need. It was almost an apology. The realisation unnerved Rachel, and even as Quinn's hands inched up underneath her shirt, caressing her torso, she pushed the other girl off her. Surprised, Quinn sat back on her heels. Rachel's shirt fell back into place as she once again propped herself up on her elbows.

"What was that, Quinn?"

"What?"

"Why were you saying my name over and over again?" Rachel asked. Quinn frowned.

"Because I love you."

"No. No. That's not what that was. Don't _lie_ to me Quinn! I may not be incredibly experienced when it comes to bedroom etiquette, but as an actress, I know what different tones of voice mean, and that definitely wasn't an 'I love you'," Rachel proclaimed, extracting herself from beneath Quinn. She pulled her knees up to her chest, letting them protect her. Something flashed in Quinn's eyes, but before Rachel could work out what it was, the other girl was leaning forward.

"Rachel, that wasn't an apology. I don't know why you would think that. I love you. I promise. I wouldn't hurt you," Quinn said, her words coming out so soothing and confident that Rachel almost believed her. Her heart ached in her chest, and there was a build up of pressure behind her solar plexus. She wanted to believe Quinn, wanted to believe the words and the sincerity in her eyes, but she couldn't. With a flash of clarity and self confidence, she knew she wasn't wrong. For all Quinn said that she wasn't lying, Rachel knew the truth. She'd heard someone else utter her name as a means of proclaiming love for her - she'd even heard it from Quinn - and the tone with which it was said was definitely not the one with which it was said a moment ago. She didn't doubt that Quinn loved her, not at all, but she knew that wasn't what she had been saying with her kisses.

"Don't. Lie. To. Me," she said, emphasising each and every word. Quinn's eyes went wide and she sat back on her heels again.

"Rachel, what the hell?"

"I said don't lie to me, Quinn. And you are. Don't pretend, ok. I'm not some simpleton like Finn who can be manipulated by you. Or someone like Sam who was so afraid of you that he overlooked your lies to do otherwise. I know you just lied."

"I don't have to listen to this," Quinn said, throwing her hands in the air. She got off the bed, but didn't leave. She stood at the base of it, staring across its length at Rachel. Rachel shook her head.

"I called you out, but you still won't admit that there was something else behind those kisses," she said. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She let it out slowly, counting to ten in her head, trying to calm down. She wanted Quinn to admit that she'd lied, but she didn't want the other girl to walk out. She needed her. That's why she needed her to admit that she was lying.

"Rachel," Quinn began, but her voice trailed off, as though she didn't know what else to say.

"What, Quinn, what?" Rachel snapped, stunned by her own ferocity as the words came out. The sentence was much harsher than she intended it to be. But she clenched her teeth to stop an apology.

"Don't talk to me like that," Quinn protested, the anger quickly rising in her voice. Her eyebrows were knit together in fury. Her voice hadn't risen, but Rachel could see the anger, simmering just below the surface.

"Then don't lie to me!"

"No, you don't get to talk to me like that. Not ever. I've had enough of people treating my like shit. I'm not going to fucking take it from you too," Quinn growled, grabbing her jacket and throwing it over her arm. "You're supposed to fucking believe me when I tell you I love you, not accuse me of lying to you."

Rachel watched as Quinn walked out. She bit back the urge to cry out for her to stop. She fought the apology she wanted to scream to the other girl. Instead, after the sound of the front door slamming shut, the sound drifting up to her, there was quiet, the silence eating its way to her soul. Images of Russel Fabray yelling at his daughter fogged her mind. She buried her face in her hands. She shouldn't have pushed. Now she lost the girl she loved, all because of what was probably something stupid and inconsequential. So what if Quinn had sounded apologetic?

No. Rachel caught her thoughts. It mattered; it mattered that Quinn wouldn't tell her why she'd sounded apologetic. It mattered that Quinn wouldn't admit that she was lying. She'd been worried, that's why she'd snapped at Quinn. What could Quinn possibly have done that she felt she couldn't share it with her? Rachel didn't like being kept in the dark; when it came to her loved ones, she wanted to know everything. Scrambling for her phone, she dialled the number she knew off by heart.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

"Hello?" a voice said on the other end. Rachel scrambled for something to say; she didn't know where to start. "Hello?" the voice said again.

"K-Kurt?" Rachel stammered, "Kurt, I need you."

"Rachel? Is everything ok? What's wrong?"

"Kurt, I screwed it all up. I messed it up so bad. She's gone."

"Ok, it's going to be alright. Hang on, ok? I'll be there in ten," Kurt said, and the line went dead. Waiting, Rachel hugged her knees to her chest. He was the only person she trusted to help her. She didn't know how she was going to fix things, getting Quinn to open up and admit that she lied, while simultaneously fixing the new rift in their relationship, but she knew Kurt would listen, would try to help.

Ten minutes later, there was a knock at the front door. Stumbling down the stairs, Rachel managed to open it. Her hand was shaking slightly; it took her two goes to grip the handle, three to actually turn it. Another fifteen minutes later, Rachel, amidst tears, indignation, anger and worry, finished her recount of what happened. Kurt took her hand.

"Listen, Rachel, you're not wrong in knowing that she's lying to you and wanting to know why, but sometimes you have to learn to trust. You have to trust Quinn that she knows what she's doing, that she has a good reason for keeping things from you," he said, sighing.

"But I'm her girlfriend! I deserve to know!"

"Rachel, Quinn is not used to having people to talk to about important things, remember? There's this whole other part of her life that no one knows about. We don't know how she thinks, we don't know what kind of things she's been through. We know only bits, and bits aren't enough to let us say that we really know her. The girl has issues, obviously, look at what she did to herself over summer."

"B-b-but-" Rachel began to stutter, but Kurt held up a hand, cutting her off.

"She's a private person, Rachel, she isn't used to letting everyone in to every aspect of her life immediately. You have to earn her trust, and that's going to take time. Look at her, Rachel. She needs to really, really trust you to reveal all her secrets to you. You might be her girlfriend, but she still doesn't trust you enough. You're going to have to be patient with her. She's special, Rachel, she's not the ordinary I-get-everything-I-want girl that everyone always thinks she is. It means you have to treat her like she's special, and that means being patient with her," Kurt advised. Rachel was quiet, thinking his words over. They made sense. They made a lot of sense. She hadn't thought about it like that before, but when she really gave it a moment to properly think about it, Kurt was right. She hardly knew Quinn; every time they went on a date, she learnt something completely new and amazing about her - she was letting her into her life one tiny step at a time. She sighed. Maybe she'd been a little over the top earlier. She rubbed her sore, swollen eyes.

"Apologise to her, and I'm sure she'll be willing to forgive you. She loves you, you know," Kurt smiled, squeezing her hand. Rachel returned the smile.

"How do you know?" she asked, frowning a little at him, as she realised what he said. He gave her a grin, flashing perfect, white teeth.

"She's loved you for a long time, Rachel, you just never saw it. Trust me on that one," he returned, rather enigmatically. Rachel raised her eyebrows and Kurt grinned wider, but didn't give any more information.

"Fine. Keep it to yourself, then," she mock glared at him. He pretended not to know what she was talking about. She rolled her eyes at him, but was glad that he was there. She needed his sense of cool and his ability to talk common sense into her. She really hoped that when they both found themselves in New York next year, and living there years from now, that they would still maintain their friendship. He was precious to her, even if sometimes their competitive selves fought.

Her thoughts turned back to Quinn. Tomorrow; she would apologise tomorrow and hope, against all hope, that Quinn would forgive her and that they could go back to being in a happy relationship. It had only been a few hours, but already she missed her, an ache in her chest which wouldn't go away. She'd never envisioned herself with Quinn, but now that they had dated, she couldn't see herself with anyone else. Not truly. Yes, tomorrow, she had to.

* * *

><p>Tomorrow arrived with perfect blue skies and warmth, an indication that the end of the school year was fast approaching and that in a couple of months, Rachel wouldn't be returning to the halls of McKinley. She started the day with a smile, and an energetic session on her elliptical, making her feel more alive than ever. Today was the day; she would apologise to Quinn, they would make up and everything would go back to being perfect. She could spend the last few months of high school in bliss. She almost ran to the car when it was time to leave, and almost drove through several red lights in her excitement. But she got to school safe, and being the prudent, if overzealous driver that she was, without breaking any driving laws.<p>

The school was abuzz with excited, disbelieving whispers when Rachel finally arrived. Students stood in clusters, words rapidly falling out of their mouths, elaborate hand gestures punctuating sentences; it was the most alive Rachel had ever seen the student body, and that was something, considering the several sex riots the Glee club had caused over the past few years. She wandered past them, weaving in and out of the groups. There was a large crowd gathered outside the main doors of the school, which, Rachel could just see, above the heads of her peers, were still closed. Spotting Kurt, she rushed over to him, the question leaving her mouth as she approached.

"What happened?"

"Someone broke into the school last night, so they've locked us all out. No one knows what's happening. There were police here earlier. You just missed them," he explained, looking worried. He shrugged when Rachel raised her eyebrows. She scanned the crowd, looking for someone. She spotted him, mohawked head poking out among a group of boys. She scurried over to him, excusing herself from the company of Kurt, and pulling Puck by the arm, stole him away from his group of friends.

"Was it you?" she asked before he managed to get a protest to leave his mouth. Surprised, he stared at her.

"No way! When I break into the school, they have no idea I was ever there," he preened, proud that he had never been caught, or caused a commotion such as was happening around them. "Trust me, Short Stuff, same as you, I have no idea what's going on here."

Suddenly, there was a groan and the front doors opened and the crowd, gathering there, flooded the corridor, eager to see what had happened. Rachel and Puck stood back, arms crossed, watching as their peers pushed each other to be the first to see what it was to have them locked out of their school. Several teachers came out, ushering the lingering groups of students to class. But Puck and Rachel waited, ignoring the teacher who was pointedly staring at them, willing them to move. Rachel was glad Puck was with her, she felt less guilty about ignoring the teacher with him around. Besides, she too wanted to know what the fuss was about, but didn't want to seem as desperate as the others of her school; a star was always to maintain class, after all, not allow themselves to fall to the common behaviour of normal people. Audrey Hepburn would never have been caught pushing and shoving in a crowd, Rachel was sure. When enough of the students had dispersed, the two of them, without a single word, but seemingly a single thought, marched towards the entrance hall of McKinley, burning with curiosity, but not willing to outwardly show it.

The corridor was empty, the last of the classroom doors slamming shut with a dull thud as they entered. They could hear the muted chattering of their fellow students as the sounds melted through the doors and the walls of the classrooms, sounding like ghost children as the sound echoed in the empty corridor. Rachel swallowed. She saw it immediately; words, written in what seemed to be red paint, scrawled across the linoleum floor, impossible to miss. She read the line closest to her feet. It didn't make any sense, and so she realised that the starting point of the text was at the other side of the corridor. The two of them walked over to it, shuffling backwards as they read each line.

_Three bottles of wine and a passionate kiss  
>In the middle of the night<br>On an illegal tryst.  
>Two dates into unfamiliar worlds;<br>Embraced by a tattooed family  
>Who drink coke and rum,<br>And pierced by a laser from a plastic gun.  
>One love burning brighter than the rest,<br>One fight to put it to the test.  
>One errant poet with only one important question:<br>Is it obvious enough for you yet?_

Rachel's heart skipped a beat when she read the first line. By the time she got to the end, it had stopped beating altogether. It had just stopped. No beat, no pulse, no blood still moving through her veins. Quinn. _Quinn_. Errant. Quinn _was_ Errant. She took a shuddering breath, the air which had been knocked out of her lungs reluctantly returning to them. Her chest hurt, like her insides had been rubbed raw and put back in the wrong way, and there wasn't room for her lungs to expand anymore. Air burned her throat, set fire to her lungs, made her heart stab her with each beat. Quinn. Was. Errant. Her head hurt, like she'd just been aroused into consciousness after being knocked out by a blow to the head. She put her hand to her temple, pressing her palm against it, willing the pain away.

"Rachel, Rach, are you alright?" a concerned Puck asked, putting a hand lightly on her shoulder. She rounded on him, eyes flashing, hand dropping and curling into a fist. She hit him hard with it on his chest.

"You knew! You fucking knew! And you didn't tell me! I'm going to kill her. I'm really, really going to kill her. How dare she? She _knew_ how much I wanted to find out who Errant was, and she'd sit there and ask me questions and talk as if she didn't know a thing, and all this time, all this god damn time, it was _her_!" Rachel fumed. Puck cowered before her, she noticed, in a part of her brain mildly detached from her rage. Spittle flew from her mouth as she screamed, spraying all over the front of Puck's t-shirt. Abruptly, she turned on her heel and stormed out of the corridor, heading for her car. Heavy footsteps followed her, Puck, jogging behind to keep up with her.

"Rachel, where are you going? Hey, wait up! Don't do something stupid," he urged, but she ignored him. Getting into the car, she shoved the keys into the ignition, turning it with such ferocity that the car revved as it started. She barely thought anything rational as she pulled on her seatbelt - the only thing she wouldn't go without doing first - and pulling out of her spot in the parking lot.

The last thing she saw as she disappeared with a squeal of tyres, a puff of smoke and the smell of burning rubber, was Puck, running a hand through his mohawk, looking the most worried she had ever seen him. And then she was gone.

**A/N: And so it truly begins. What do you think? Bet you're relieved to find out for sure that Quinn is Errant. But thoughts and comments and feedback if you have any are greatly appreciated.**


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: Merry Christmas everybody! In celebration, have the next chapter of this story. Enjoy!**

She sped through the Lima streets, the gears in her mind spinning, turning, grinding, trying to decide where first to look for one, Quinn Fabray. Turning, turning again, speeding. Hardly without knowing it, she skid to a stop outside the location of their last date - the laser tag place.

She burst through the door, pushing it open so hard that it slammed against the wall, leaving a dent from the handle in the plaster. Some of it dislodged and crumbled to the floor as it swung back closed. Every pair of eyes turned to her, games left, ignored as the electronic sounds of death and of car crashes resounded in the small space. She held their stares for a moment, daring them to challenge her. None did. One by one, they turned back to their video games, inserting another coin into the slot, but their attention was still fixated on Rachel. She could feel the tension in the air as they tried not to breathe, lest they miss finding out who the girl with the rage filled eyes was, and why she was there, looking murderous. She marched up to the counter, coming face to face with the owner of the complex; Ernest, she remembered. He shook his head, already guessing what she was there for.

"She's not here," he said. Rachel glared at him for a moment, until she was sure beyond doubt that he was telling the truth. It must have looked strange, the small girl with her eyes narrowed at the tall man behind the counter, but she didn't care. She wanted to find Quinn. Turning on the ball of her foot, she stormed back out, the sound of her footsteps drowning out the words Ernest was crying out to her as she left: "remember she loves you!"

Rachel filed the words away in her mind, under "Things Never To Be Thought Of Again", once more starting her car and putting her full weight on the accelerator, not caring that each time she did so, she was destroying her car a little more. She drove past the skate park, slowing her car down to a crawl, peering at the people there; they were all truanting kids, skipping school in favour of the half pipe. There was no sign of the girl she was looking for, no flash of pink hair. Growing more frustrated by the minute, she floored the accelerator again, the car shooting forward without protest.

Next stop, the bikey bar, she thought as she scoured her mind for directions. She suddenly wished she'd paid more attention to where they were going that night of their first date, rather than being caught in the thrill of it all. But it was Lima, she grew up here; she had some inherent sense of direction, knowing instinctively where to turn off, and soon, found herself on the open highway, certain that in a moment, the House of Chaos would appear on the horizon.

As if to prove her right, within a few minutes, a small, run down building with a patch of dirt as a parking lot appeared, bikes strewn all over the space. Rachel pulled into the lot, shutting the engine off right in the middle of the driveway, oblivious in her anger to the fact that she was stopping anyone from entering or leaving the venue. Even if she had known it, at that moment, she wouldn't have cared. The anger in her boiled; she was sweating, a thin layer coating her lower back, and she clenched her teeth as she marched up to the front door, kicking up little clouds of brown dust as she went. This time, no one so much as looked up from their drinks as she entered. She headed straight for the bar, making a beeline for Bernie.

"Well, looky, it's Quinnie's little friend! What brings you to this fine establishment today, m'dear?" he greeted with a warm smile, pouring a pint of beer as he did so.

"Is she here?" Rachel asked, cutting to the chase. She had no patience for pleasantries today. She wanted to find Quinn, and she wanted to find her immediately. She and her 'girlfriend' needed to have words.

"'Fraid not, my girl. Haven't seen her 'round for a coupl'a days," he lamented, "but you look like a woman wronged. What's that girl done to ya?"

"Yes, pray, do tell. What's Quinn done to have you bursting in here on a school day, looking like you would like to have her head on a silver platter?" a voice came from further down the bar. Rachel whipped her head around to find Mark, the mysterious friend of Quinn's that she'd met on their first date, sitting there, glass of beer in hand. He raised his eyebrows at her, letting them re-ask the question.

"She lied to me," Rachel stated shortly. Mark shrugged, coolly, as if to say 'so what?'.

"She lies to everybody. You learn to get used to it."

"But she promised she wasn't lying to me! And then she did. I don't appreciate having my trust destroyed by anybody. She broke a promise and she lied."

"What did she lie about?" Mark asked with curiosity, taking a sip from his beer. Bernie leaned his elbows on the counter top, bringing his face closer to the conversation, as interested as Mark. Rachel swallowed.

"She lied about lying. And she lied about not knowing anything about this graffiti poet who had been leaving beautiful pieces of poetry all around the school," she said, trailing off. She left out the part about Quinn's apologetic kisses, thinking that was too personal to share; Quinn might have been comfortable around these two men, but she wasn't Quinn, and she didn't think that letting them entirely into every facet of her life was prudent of her.

"Ah yes, Errant, her pseudonym from ever since she started writing. But why is it even important? She likes keeping herself separate from the things she writes. I'm not seeing the connection," Mark shrugged, keeping his eyes trained on Rachel. She suppressed a growl which wanted to emerge from the back of her throat. Where could she begin to explain? She took a moment to compose the thoughts in her head.

"I was curious. I wanted to know who Errant was, and I made it my mission to find out. I got a little obsessed. People made fun of me over it. Not horribly, of course, but they used to laugh, call me crazy - it was very discouraging. But never Quinn. She would encourage me, try to help me. One time she gave me a scrap of paper with a poem that she'd co-" Rachel paled, realising that Quinn hadn't copied that poem from anywhere; that piece of paper was the only evidence that Quinn, Errant, had ever written that poem. And Rachel was the only other person who had ever seen it. Her stomach felt hollow.

Both Mark and Bernie were staring at her with intense curiosity, but neither spoke as Rachel was enveloped by her epiphany. Suddenly aware of their stares and their silence, she recovered herself. Swallowing, even though her mouth was dry, she tried to continue.

"She knew how important it was to me to find out who Errant was. And she promised, she looked me right in the eye, and she promised that she had no idea. And all this time…" she hung her head, jaw clenched to prevent the sudden prickling in her eyes which was indicative of imminent crying. Mark studied his drink, trying to find inspiration for what to say in its depths, to comfort Rachel, to defend Quinn. But it was Bernie who spoke. He looked out across the bar, but his eyes revealed that he was speaking from his heart.

"Silly, silly girl, that Quinn. Pretends she knows what she's doin' but in truth, ain't got any idea. Rachel," he said, now focusing on her, "she does love ya. She ain't so good at showin' it, but I swear, she does. You gotta forgive her."

"I can't."

The words broke her heart even as she realised that she meant them. Something snapped into place within her chest. There wouldn't be any more forgiveness for Quinn, not this time. Rachel had always been lenient, thinking that if she forgave Quinn often enough, then the girl would stop victimising her, that they might become friends. Slowly, it happened, slowly they had flown past the stage of friendship and thrown themselves into something sweeter, more intimate - something more. And Quinn, with some lies, had shattered the foundations of their relationship. Rachel had no more forgiveness left in her; she had spent it all - now there was nothing more to get in return for forgiving Quinn again. Romance was out of the question, the trust she had in Quinn broken into a thousand small fragments. And friendship - it hurt Rachel's heart to imagine Quinn as just a friend.

She stood and walked out of the bar, ignoring the questions and the pleas for her to stop from the two men she was leaving. They probably imagined that she was off to find Quinn, to drag her into the confrontation that she had been so hell bent upon when she'd first entered the bar, wild and caught in the maelstrom of her own fury. But she wasn't. Her soul was tired, dragging its feet, the fight all gone. Instead, she got into her car and drove home, taking her time. No, there weren't any options left for her and Quinn. Not anymore.

Listless and exhausted, she dropped onto her bed once she got home, pretending that she wasn't missing a day of school to feel sorry for herself and what her life had become. Her phone buzzed, but she ignored it. Later, when she bothered to check, she would see the message was from Quinn. She never replied.

The next few days straggled, struggling to move forward, as if the clocks all had trouble ticking onwards, or the Universe had decided in a change of pace and slowed everything down tenfold. Rachel went to school, did her work, acted happy, ignored any form of contact from Quinn. And soon, she found that she _was _happy, that the act was no longer an act, at least not the way it had begun. Rachel could breathe again, deep, wholesome, life-giving breaths. She threw herself back into school and Glee. The won competitions, including Nationals, the ever sought after trophy perched in a position of pride in the choir room. Rachel improved her grades, and spirits ran high in the population of the McKinley seniors. The graffiti, Errant's epitaph, were scrubbed from the hallway floor, and the final presence of Quinn was eradicated from the school, and Rachel had buried her feelings for the girl so deep in the locked chest within her heart, that she barely felt a pang of loss that it was gone.

The weeks flew by, melting into months, and one day, almost unexpectedly, Rachel awoke with a jolt in the pit of her stomach. Graduation - the final steps she would ever take as a high schooler. She could not stop grinning as she did her morning session on the elliptical. She even ate more than her usual fill at breakfast, breaking the strict diet she had maintained over the past few years. The end had finally come, and it was goodbye Glee club, hello Broadway! At least, that was the plan. It had been the plan ever since Rachel had been old enough to form coherent thoughts of her own. Today, she would graduate, and next week, she would be gone, packed and left to move to New York with Kurt, their applications, by some stroke of luck, having both been accepted. They had literally cried tears of joy when they had received their letters. Rachel's fathers couldn't be more proud. The letter in question was now framed and hung up in the basement, right below the enormous portrait of Rachel. The moment of receiving that letter, holding it with nauseating anticipation as she fumbled to tear it open, and then finding out that she had been accepted was one of the best moments of her life. She only had one final hurdle before getting there.

The school that day was abuzz with the excited murmurs of the senior class of 2012, and the proud mutterings of the parents as slowly, the graduation ceremony began. And, to Rachel, seemed to finish just as soon as it had begun. She could barely remember strutting across the stage to receive her graduate certificate, only that she had, and that it was now sitting in her hand, neatly rolled up and held closed by a red and black ribbon. She shook her head in disbelief. She had done it - she had made it through high school, through endless bullying and ridicule and boring classes and tough competitions - she had made it. Now she was off into the big wide world, and more specifically, the world of musical theatre. She could barely contain the excitement which bubbled within her at every waking moment. Nothing could dampen her spirits, nothing at all.

Almost.

It wasn't until the ceremony was over that Rachel spotted her, standing alongside Puck as everyone started to drift away from the school. Rachel put her head down, picking up her stride. She wanted to get out of there as soon as possible. But too late. A voice called to her, cutting over the conversations of the people around her.

"Rachel!"

Rachel stopped dead in her tracks. Her heart did an involuntary leap in her chest, a display of the acrobatics which had lain dormant for months. She mentally chastised herself, then, taking a deep breath, she let her manner cool.

"Quinn," she returned, turning to face the other girl.

"Congratulations," Quinn offered, meeting her eye for a second, then glancing away. Rachel nodded her thanks. They stood there for a moment, Rachel looking at the other students and parents around them, while Quinn, hands in pockets, shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. Just about to leave, Rachel was stopped by Quinn speaking again.

"Look, Rachel, I'm sorry. I was really, really stupid, and I handled everything so badly," she said, "I went for a display of bravado and ostentatiousness, rather than coming and confessing it all to you quietly."

Rachel's attitude changed immediately. The dam holding back all her anger from the recent months broke, and it came spilling out, flooding over Quinn with all its force.

"Too bad Fabray. You should have realised that at the time. I wasn't your play thing, I was your girlfriend. The least you could have done was tell me, not lead me on this wild goose chase. You knew what it meant to me, you knew how much I wanted to find out, how much time I'd invested, how much effort, and yet, you still lied to me, you still toyed with me. So don't come to me now with your damn apologies, thinking that's going to make everything better, because it's not. We're broken beyond hope. And I'm going to New York, Quinn. I'm moving away, somewhere I can follow my dreams and be happy and not have a million things thrown in my face every single god damned day that remind me of you! So you can keep your apologies. I don't want them," she raged, her face turning red, her voice rising in pitch and volume. A few people stared. A few paused their conversations to listen. Quinn's face flushed a deep, heated red - the red of shame. But Rachel stopped her natural reaction of sympathy. She wasn't going to let herself feel that Quinn. She'd done so before, all it had just led to her being hurt. She wasn't doing that again.

"Rachel, I," began Quinn in a hopeless voice, throwing her palms out in a peace offering which Rachel ignored.

"I'm going away. There's nothing left for me here," Rachel said shortly, then, with as much of the Rachel Berry storm out attitude as she could muster, she turned on her heel and strode away. She didn't see the slump of Quinn's shoulders, or the single tear which escaped from the pained hazel eyes and wound a path down the fair face. Instead, she got into her car and sped home, suddenly not in the mood for the graduation party that had been planned at Brittany's house. After the sixth unanswered phone call later that afternoon, her phone stopped buzzing. She didn't turn up to the party.

For the next week, she was in a frenzy. She packed, she rushed around town, picking up last minute things and made her rounds of goodbyes. There were tears and promises of phone calls and emails. Mercedes promised to see her off at the airport, but Rachel gently explained that there was no need, that she and her dads would be driving to New York, spending that bit of precious family time together. Crestfallen, Mercedes had given her a warm hug. Puck, unexpectedly dropping by the day before Rachel's departure, left her a package, a 'goodbye, good luck gift' as he called it, which Rachel carefully tucked into her bag, promising to open it when they got to New York. He left after a quick hug and warm well wishes. Slowly, the goodbyes were made. At no point was there any sign of Quinn. When it came time to leave, Rachel breathed a silent sigh of relief that the pink haired girl had not tried another attempt at reconciliation. Leaving was much easier that way.

That morning, with the promise of a nice road trip and of dreams coming true in the city of lights, Rachel left Lima, and Quinn, behind. Suddenly, Rachel felt very much like Dorothy on the yellow brick road, full of hope and dreams and open to every possibility, while the Emerald City glimmered on the horizon.

**A/N: So that wraps up this half of the story. From the next chapter onwards, we will see Rachel settled into her life in New York, a Broadway success. Yes, it's a bit of a time jump, but that's how the story was planned right from the beginning. If you're really going to hate the story doing that, speak up now, or forever hold your peace :)**


	12. Chapter 12

She stood just outside the periphery of the stage, listening to the soft chatter of the people slowly filling the room beyond her line of vision. It was dark where she was, but she knew, beyond the barrier of curtains, there was a warm yellow light, setting the atmosphere, inviting people to sit, to expect a sense of intimacy and grandeur, romance and tragedy, all simultaneously. The thrum of life was punctuated by the sounds of the orchestra tuning up, below the proscenium, in the line of sight of the audience, but not where they would be a distraction from the action on the stage.

Rachel was early. Standing in the wings, she couldn't help but feel that she might be getting in people's way, but she couldn't stand her tiny dressing room any longer and staring at herself in her vanity mirror was not helping calm her nerves at all. Not to mention the bouquet of white gardenias sitting there, with a note saying: "Break a leg. I'll be watching" from some unknown personage. The note was typed, so no clue could be ascertained from the handwriting. Rachel's insides boiled with frustration, anticipation and nerves; who would do that? Who would leave a note, only not to identify themselves? Why would they even bother? Rachel never had had the patience for secret admirers. She needed public displays of affection; it was the only way to know whether she was truly appreciated or not.

The noise from the theatre grew louder as more people filled the red seats. It was supposed to be a full house tonight - not unusual for the show, but one of those seats belonged to the person who'd sent her those flowers, and Rachel was itching to find out who it was.

Her mouth tasted of the tang of alcohol, and she took another swig of the rum in her hand. To those people who'd paid to come see the show, it was would have been considered bad form to be drinking so close to the opening number, but those who worked in the theatre industry knew better; no actor ever went on stage completely sober. They didn't drink much, just enough to help steady their nerves; definitely not enough to seem as though they had been drinking. Now that _would_ have been bad form, and Rachel, if nothing else, was a great performer, dedicated to her art and perfecting it. Usually she avoided rum, preferring to go with something lighter, but her nerves were tenfold what they normally were, therefore requiring something stronger. Not that it was helping much, anyhow.

Who had sent the flowers? She'd asked the person who'd delivered them, but the best they could do was shrug and say they couldn't give the details of their customers due to their company's privacy policy. Her hands shook, holding the glass of rum while the faces of a million different people raced through her mind; surely it had to be one of them.

But then again, Rachel was a Broadway star; like all celebrities, she had her admirers - the sender could just well be some crazed person she'd never met before. Unlikely, because she'd asked security to not allow deliveries to her unless the sender could irrefutably prove that they personally knew her, but it was always a possibility that someone had faked an acquaintance just to get through to her. She could never be too cautious. She'd had her fair share of obsessed fans over the few years she had been acting in small plays, and she didn't wish repeat performances of those times; unpleasant wasn't a strong enough word to describe them.

Gardenias. White gardenias. She knew what those meant, and she knew it very well. She could never forget her junior year in high school, years ago though it was, and how, asked by a boy what kind of corsage to get his girlfriend for prom, she had said gardenia, hoping, with the small pulse of hope which beat in the recesses of her heart, that the girl would realise what a gardenia signified in the secret language of flowers. Secret love. Rachel's message went unheeded. Now she was tortured by the knowledge of what those flowers represented and not knowing who they were from. Was it karma? It was, she was sure it was; she'd done some terrible things to some people in her life, and now the universe was mocking her. It didn't care that she was famous, a Broadway star, it was intent on paying her back for all the horrible things she'd done. Someone tapped on her shoulder, and a head came into view, headphones covering ears and microphone positioned near mouth.

"Ms Berry, show starts in five," the young man said. She nodded at him, and ducking his head in acknowledgement, he spun away, footsteps clacking on the black linoleum floor. She sighed, put down her glass, and straightened her costume. She spared a moment to scratch at her underarm, where the seam of the costume bit into her skin, wishing that someone would fix it, but knowing that they wouldn't, and that it was her duty as an actress to put up with the discomfort; she'd had worse to deal with in the past. She watched the people bustle around her, the stage crew, rushing to their positions, ready to transform the stage into eighteenth century Paris, the sound crew, double checking the microphones on the costumes, and the director, patiently waiting to the side, relaxed as ever. He flashed Rachel a smile.

"Break a leg, honey," he grinned, the same good luck words he used before every performance. She smiled back, despite the anxious thoughts about the sender of the flowers chewing her mind. She loved working with David; he was, in her opinion, the apotheosis of directors. She only wished that she could work with him forever, but she knew, like any actress, that she wasn't destined to play this role forever.

Abruptly, the orchestra stopped its tuneless twanging and a hush fell over the theatre, both in the audience, and backstage. Every single person held a collective breath, hearts thudding in sweet anticipation. David nodded and one of the production crew pressed a button. And so it began, exactly as it began every other night, and Rachel was caught in it, throwing herself tirelessly into this new world, this new life, becoming a person so unlike herself, caught in troubles she herself had never herself personally faced. Tonight, she was Christine Daae. Tonight, and each night, she fell in love, over and over again with Raoul, and each night, she felt her heart break as she said goodbye to her mentor, the shattered, lonely Erik, the Phantom of the opera. Yet tonight, she didn't forget to look out discretely into the audience, and search for the sender of her flowers. The faces blurred, those close enough to be seen clearly, in love with the performance, and further away, the faces became too distant to see properly.

By the end of the performance, she had no clearer idea of who the sender might be, and despite a cast and crew overjoyed by another sold out performance, congratulating one another, and their unlikely, but marvellous star, Rachel Berry, she, the star in question, retired to her dressing room, where she stared mutely at the gardenias for a long time before changing out of her costume. Someone had come and cleared the half finished glass of rum from her dresser during the performance, and Rachel found herself wishing that they hadn't. A knock on the door startled her. David entered, still smiling in the afterglow of another successful performance, but there was an unmistakable air of worry about him as he gently shut the door behind him. He half sat, half leaned against the edge of her table, long legs stretched out, crossed, supporting his weight. He looked at her, the smile fast fading.

"What is wrong, my little star?" he asked, ever aware of Rachel's emotions. It was one of the things she loved about working with him, he always paid attention to how those he was working with were feeling, and tried his utmost to cheer them up; if there was one thing David made sure of, it was that everyone he was working with was happy and content. Nothing wounded him more than seeing someone unhappy. Wordlessly, Rachel pointed at the bouquet. David looked at them, read the note still nested among the flowers, and returned his gaze to Rachel. He shrugged, palms outward, a confused expression gracing his face.

"They mean secret love. David, someone out there tonight told me in their flowers that they are in love with me, and I have no idea who it is! It's so infuriating!" she exclaimed, distressed. "And it's someone I must know, because I've told security to not allow any gifts from anyone unless they can prove that I know them. What am I supposed to do, David?"

"This worries you?" he noted, questioning, though he knew the answer. With a confirming nod from Rachel, he continued, "let me tell you a story. One year ago, I held auditions for a key role in a famous Broadway play. I saw hundreds of hopeful girls, young women, some with talent, some who could hardly hold a note, and as I sat there, the hours whittling past, I thought to myself, 'am I ever going to find the right actress?' And then, just as I thought it, this young lady comes in, all courage and confidence, and she gives us this big smile and says 'Hello, I'm Rachel Berry, and I'm going to be your next Christine Daae,' and then she proceeded to astonish us with her rendition of Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again. I knew straight away, she was the girl I wanted to cast, but the other people on the panel fought me. 'She's too short,' said one. 'She doesn't look like a Christine,' said another, and to them I said, 'No, but inside, she _is_ Christine, and has a voice to match.' So I cast her anyway. Four months after opening night, she is one of the most loved young women to ever play this role, with hordes of people falling down at her feet to please her, and yet, here she sits, upset and hiding, because someone sent her flowers. Honey, don't you know what the flowers mean? They mean you made it! After this, you won't have to fight to the death for another role, they'll be handed to you," he said, smiling at her, "you shouldn't let something like bouquets of flowers from a mysterious sender get you down. You should be leaping for joy that someone loves you enough to send them in the first place. You're a Broadway actress, baby, it comes with the job description."

"I know, and I love you for casting me, and I love the job, and I love that I'm here, living my dream, but it still bothers me. Yes, I have fans who clamber for my autograph, waiting outside the stage doors for a glimpse of me, but despite that, David, I still go home alone. I still turn on the lights to an empty apartment, and go to sleep in a cold bed. It doesn't bother me most of the time, but there's someone who says they're in love with me, and I'm lonely. Can you blame me for wanting to know who it is?" she replied, her voice full of sadness. It was funny, her voice was full of sadness everyday on stage, but this sadness was different, this sadness touched her, made her feel its presence within her chest; this sadness hurt. David was still smiling at her, but his smile drooped a little at the edges, pity filled his eyes.

"I know honey, I know. But don't go throwing yourself at the first person who says I love you. Half of them don't mean it, a quarter of the rest say it because they're afraid of being alone, and nine-tenths of them say it only because it means they'll get into your pants. Only one person is ever going to truly mean it, so you have to make sure that you're listening. Choose who gets to break your heart, Rae, because only one person is ever worth it," David advised, walking over and kneeling on the carpet, coming eye to eye with Rachel. She sniffled.

"I hate it when you call me Rae," she muttered, crossing her arms and hugging herself. David grinned.

"I know. But why do you think I do it? If not me, then who? Now, c'mon, I'll take you home. I'm guessing you won't want to go out with the rest of them for a couple of drinks," he said, gently lifting her to her feet. As she steadied herself, he grabbed her bag, and then led her out of the theatre.

Few people still lingered at the stage door, eager for a chance to see the stars of the performance. To her immense credit, Rachel pulled up a smile and was as friendly as ever with them, making small talk as she signed their playbills and posed for badly lit photos taken by tiny digital cameras. David stood by her side, assisting her all the while, without making it look like she needed help. Just as they went to leave, they were stopped by a man in his early thirties, wearing a beaten leather jacket. He held his playbill out, smiling at Rachel. She took his offered pen and signed, casting furtive glances at his face, wondering where on earth she might have seen him before. He stirred a memory deep within her, and she could feel it struggling to rise to the surface; she knew she'd seen him before, but couldn't quite place him. He caught her staring and grinned.

"Can't quite remember, can you? I didn't think you would. Mark," he offered, "we met in Ohio, when you were still in high school. A mutual friend introduced us."

That was it, she remembered now. The struggling memory broke free, and suddenly her mind was flooded with hazy images of dim lighting, a pool game, a sliver of flesh and an exhilarating feeling. Of course. She'd buried those times so deep, they were almost foreign to her. But she offered her hand, smiling as Mark shook it.

"Of course, Mark, I remember now. The House of Chaos. How could I have forgotten?"

"I didn't expect you to remember. It was a long time ago, and you've come a long way since then. But as soon as I saw your name in the newspaper, I knew I had to come see your play. Quinn always said you were going to make it big one day," Mark smiled. Rachel's heart hammered in her chest at the mention of Quinn, the girl she'd left behind.

"And," Rachel began, but found her mouth dry. She swallowed, and tried again, "and how is Quinn?"

"Well. She went back to school the year after you graduated. Not McKinley, because that damn principal wouldn't accept her back into the school, but she finished her education. Then she was an English major at Columbia, and she never moved away."

"She still lives here?" Rachel asked, feeling her breath catch in her throat. Mark nodded.

"Sure. She still visits home a lot, but she's got herself an apartment up here, and she's working with a publishing company, and trying to write her own book. She's doing well."

"Oh. Well, that's nice for her," Rachel murmured, forcing a smile to hide the strange feeling which had leapt, unbidden, within her. "Um, I have to go, but if you see her, you should say hi from me," she added, hoping that he didn't hear the reluctance in her voice. He nodded again and smiled. Rachel tugged at David's sleeve, urging him along. As they walked away, she did her best not to break into a hurry, keeping her stride in check.

"Nice seeing you again, Rachel!" she heard Mark call to her as they disappeared around a corner. As soon as they were out of sight, she let her shoulders slump, losing the composure she had been struggling to maintain. She shook her head at David when she saw him open his mouth to ask the million questions which she was sure were racing through his mind. Adhering to her want of silence, he led her to the car, opening the door for her.

She spent the ride home wrapped in her cocoon of quiet, letting the thoughts run through her mind as they would. First gardenias and then Mark; this night was just full of things which she linked back to Quinn. She shook her head slightly and drew a deep breath. A coincidence, it was all just a coincidence, she told herself, battling her imagination as it tried to convince her otherwise. She was lonely and had just heard that her ex-girlfriend was in New York, the very same city she was living in, that's all it was, this feeling which left her breathless and exhilarated, and painfully worried. New York was a big city, she justified to herself, there was no reason to think that she would ever run into Quinn; there were millions of people here that she'd never met and never would, who would live their entire lives in this jungle city full of lights and yellow taxis. She released the breath she'd been holding, letting her worries melt away with it. Staring out of the windshield, she brought herself back to her calm centre, where thoughts of Quinn couldn't rattle her. She smiled at David, who had been shooting her concerned glances the whole car trip.

"I'm ok, I promise," she acknowledged. He grunted.

"What I saw was not someone who was ok. It's none of my business, and if you don't want to talk about it, that's fine, but I've never seen you react that way to anything," he said, and Rachel almost cringed. Of course he'd noticed; it had been a year, but he knew her so well already, better than some of her close friends. "Hun, if you need to talk about what happened, you know I'm listening. Also, I need to know these things if they can upset you so easily. I can't have my star worried sick about something else when she should be immersed in the production."

"You're right," she agreed as he pulled into the parking lot of her apartment complex, "come up. I think I need to talk about it, and you're willing to listen, and you volunteered, so you're the one who's going to hear it."

They took the elevator ride in silence, and it wasn't until Rachel had poured them a drink, tea for herself and black coffee for David, which he cringed at slightly, but drank anyway, that she settled down on the leather sofa next to him and began to talk. She told him of Quinn, and their relationship, how it had begun, how it had ended, and how, up until this very night, she hadn't considered that Quinn might be in the same city; all this time she had assumed that Quinn stayed in Lima.

"Do you regret things ending with her?" David asked, sipping from his still steaming mug. Rachel shook her head vehemently.

"Gosh no. Maybe the way I handled it, but not that it ended. I did what was right for me, and I can't regret that. I let her abuse my trust and that's not fair. Besides, that's not the way to have a healthy relationship. You're supposed to tell the other person things, not keep millions of secrets. No, I don't regret things ending with her. But I do wish I'd done it in a way to have more closure. I still feel guilty about the way I brushed her off, and then the way I yelled at her at graduation. I even knew the only reason she'd come was to see me, but it made me angry, rather than flattered. I hope I don't see her around the city. I love life here, and I don't want it ruined by being afraid of seeing her every time I go out," she said. David made an amused sound.

"And yet, Rae, you're going to look for her everywhere you go now, aren't you? Ah Rachel, my poor little Broadway star, so naïve, so inexperienced. I don't know if you can see it, but you're still in love with her," he smiled. Rachel was taken aback, shocked by his saying so.

"What?" she cried in outrage, leaping to her feet, "after everything I said to you, you still think I'd be in love with her? Weren't you listening? I'm not in love with her, I don't regret breaking things off, and I really wish I don't see her again."

"Ah, but your body lies. You're a great actress, but terrible at hiding your feelings. Yes, you're angry, but you still love her. Tell me, how many relationships which lasted longer than six months have you had since her?" he asked. Silence was his only answer. He smiled again. Rachel shook her head.

"No, that doesn't mean anything. None of those people were right for me. Ryan was misogynistic, Roger was too much of a control freak and Lily was too possessive. I couldn't be with them. And then there was James, who was jealous, and I think he was only with me because he thought he could get famous off my fame. That doesn't mean I'm in love with Quinn; it just proves that I haven't found the right person for me yet!"

David shook his head slightly, and sipped at his coffee, smiling into the mug. On the surface, they all seemed like legitimate reasons for those relationships to fail, but he was sure, if Rachel looked deep enough, and was honest with herself, she would find that the reasons those people weren't right for her was because she kept comparing them to Quinn. From what he'd heard about the girl, it seemed she was Rachel's balancing half.

"Well, ok, if you say so, Rae," he shrugged, knowing that even if he kept arguing, she'd still be convinced she was right, "but no more looking into the audience to find your secret admirer, and definitely no looking out to see if Quinn has come to watch your show. I want you fully committed to the performance."

Rachel blushed. "You noticed?" and when David nodded, she flushed an even deeper red, "I'm sorry, it won't happen again. That was a lapse on my part, and I should have known better. I thought it wasn't obvious," she apologised. David chuckled.

"It wasn't obvious. But I'm the director. It's my job to see the things the audience doesn't, and make sure that they're corrected. However, apart from that, congratulations on another flawless performance, Ms Berry," he laughed, "and don't worry, tomorrow I have a bone to pick with George and his inability to wear his bowtie straight. I know for a fact that's not costuming's doing," and even Rachel giggled at that. The older man was in the habit of playing with the bowtie between takes, always skewing it, sometimes deliberately. He claimed it gave his character flair. Everyone else said it made him look like a drunkard.

For a little while longer, they spoke of inconsequential things, of this actress or that, and which shows they were leaving, or coming into, and of things they'd done or seen over the past few weeks. Eventually, with time whittling away, the antique clock on the wall showing that it was nearing one in the morning, David decided it was time he went home. So with a friendly kiss on each cheek, indicative of his European upbringing, and a farewell of "Sweet dreams, darling," he took his leave, letting Rachel alone to spend the rest of the night with ghosts and memories in her cold, empty bed.

**A/N: so there you have it, the beginning of the second half of this story, an insight into Rachel's life in New York. It's set about 7 or 8 years after graduation. Hopefully, I haven't proceeded to disappoint any of you!**


	13. Chapter 13

She sat on the edge of her bed, the New York light leaking in around the edges of her curtains. Lightly tracing her fingers over the edge of the wooden box she held, painted a pastel blue, the colour of robins' eggs, and sanded back to allow patches of wood to peek through, she sighed. Sleep was far away, hiding in the cornices between her floor and the next, as unreachable as the stars. The ridges in her fingertips caught in the shallow grain of the wood, whispering as they danced along the surface. The tip of her index finger met the clasp. Hesitating, she flipped it open and gently lifted the lid; it groaned, but yielded. Inside was an assortment of papers and photographs, and small clothbound journal, half the size of a postcard. Rachel picked up the topmost paper, folded into a neat square and held closed by a length of string. She tugged and the string unravelled easily, as though it were well practiced at the manoeuvre.

_Dear Rachel,_

Thus was written on the paper, the beginning of a letter Rachel had read many times since she had received it. Yet, her eyes lingered on those opening words, tracing the script, imagining the hand which had written it all those years before. The paper was wearing thin where she had stroked her finger across it, but, like an unconscious action, as impossible to stop as a reflex, she stroked it again in that same place.

_You're furious with the way I treated you, and you are right to feel that way. I'm begging for a chance to explain things to you, and I sincerely hope that you read this letter, although, I would understand if you immediately discarded it as a thousand scraps to the wind. But I hope you have enough patience in your heart to read it at least once before sacrificing it to the streets of New York. _

_As I write, it is the night before graduation. No, in actual fact, it is Graduation Day, as the clock has ticked over to unceremoniously tell me with its constant beat that it is two minutes past twelve on the day of the graduation I never made it to. It's an odd feeling to know that I shall not be walking the stage with the rest of you; I feel…lonely. _

_I write by candle light; it's almost romantic. I hadn't intended to write you, the feeling just seemed to appear, springing upon me from the depths of my soul which I must have been ignoring. Yet, as I lit each candle, their small wicks catching alight, so too did my soul ignite, and I was compelled to scramble for a paper and pen and put in ink the words which are streaming through my mind - words addressed to you, as though they come from some secret place, specifically crafted for you, and I am but the instrument to make them communicable. _

_And yes, I am aware that this is all precursory rambling, but I am nervous, and hardly know where to start. I fear that you will not read this letter. I fear that I shall not be able to say the things I need to say. Most of all, I fear that it is too late; I fear that I have lost you forever. Can relationships truly be broken beyond repair? I need to know the truth, because I cling to the hope that nothing is irreparable. _

_You're ignoring me, and it breaks my heart, but I understand. Clean breaks can be easier; I hope it's working for you, because it's slowly killing me. Or so it feels, but I'm enough of a realist to realise that I'm being incredibly melodramatic. No one has ever died of a broken heart. You see, I love you. It's a heavy phrase, is it not? For three such small words, it is indeed heavy. Or perhaps it's the gravitas in my mind with which I say them that makes them seem such. But that does not make them any less true. _

_My heart has been yours for a long time; before we dated, before my ruthless attempt to re-climb the social ladder, before I fell pregnant, even. I think it was yours the moment I walked past the choir room in freshman year and heard you singing. You were alone in there, and everyone was filing past, eager to get home. But I heard you singing, and I paused at the door, clutching my books to my chest and peering through the pane of glass in the door. You were so impassioned; it stirred something within me - admiration, slightly tinged with jealousy. You were doing what I'd always wanted to do, but never had much talent for, and I couldn't help it, I was a little bit jealous. But there was something else; from that moment, I wanted to know you, I wanted to befriend you, I wanted to talk about musicals with you, and laugh with you, and go the cinema with you, and, oddly, I wanted to kiss you. You turned around as you finished that song you were singing, and I was afraid that you might see me, so I quickly bustled on, disappearing in the crush of students who were leaving. I tried to convince myself as I walked home that day to talk to you. I was afraid though, firstly that you'd seen me watching you, and secondly, that you might not want to be my friend. Thirdly, I was afraid of the things I was feeling for you. _

_And then I joined the Cheerios. I must confess to you that it was at once, both a blessing and a mistake. A blessing because it helped me make something in a school which would easily and willingly beat your self esteem into within an inch of its life, and a mistake because it led me to become one of those who did the beating. It was an even worse mistake that my fellow Cheerios had singled out this new Jewish girl with two dads who was obsessed with musical theatre as their target; you. To this day I still curse myself for not having enough of a spine to stand up for you and tell them to pick on somebody else. But I didn't, and in punishment to myself, I became your biggest persecutor, the girl you would almost cower in fear from when you saw me walking down the hall. I would sneer and order some jock to throw a slushie into your face, keeping down the disappointment in myself, and trying to obliterate the fact that my heart was crumbling even as the crushed ice slid down your face and dripped onto your horrible, yet endearing argyle sweaters. _

_Finn came along, and together we ruled the school, the golden couple whom everybody looked up to. It feels like an entirely different life, like an entirely different person, because so much has happened since then, but it is all important, because there was nothing that happened which wasn't related to you, which didn't help to shape me into who I am now as I write this letter to you. I hid in my relationship with Finn, from the things I felt for you, from the guilt of the things I was doing to you. But I didn't want things to progress very far; there is a reason I always stopped to pray when things were getting in danger of going further than I would have liked. _

Here Rachel paused. She placed the letter down on the duvet, and buried her face in her hands. She knew what was next in the letter and needed a moment to steel herself against it. A long time ago as high school might have been, and as far as she had come, the memories never stopped hurting or humiliating. She swallowed, letting her saliva coat her oesophagus, helping her breath better. Gingerly reaching out, she picked the letter up again. It settled in her lap, the paper fluttering slightly from the movement. She took a deep breath, and the continued reading.

_However, as you know, I did have another major lapse in judgement, and it resulted in my falling pregnant. One day in sophomore year, I slept with Puck. The story you know is that it was because I felt fat that day and let him get me drunk on wine coolers. But there was something else significant from that day, other than the loss of my virginity and the conception of my daughter. It was the day I watched you finally break down and cry. Rachel Berry, the bullied girl who never showed a crack in her self esteem finally broke. We hadn't done anything worse than usual that day, I recall; the usual name calling, the teasing, and a slushie shower - raspberry that day, I remember - yet it was too much that particular day. I'm sorry, I'm so, so, so fucking sorry. How I could have been so cruel to you, I can never understand, and I will never forgive. Making your life into a living hell was one of the worst things I could ever have done to you, and as bad as your life was because of us, you can believe that I shared some of that pain. I will never understand how I managed to pretend that I liked myself when each day I grew to hate myself more and more because of what I did to you, or what I led others to do. In an act of self loathing, I slept with Puck, because I thought giving myself to a boy who didn't respect me was an adequate form of punishment. Well, my punishment followed in my spectacular fall from grace as everyone found out that I was pregnant; I was thrown out of home, and moved from house to house until someone was kind enough to take me in. I will never be able to repay Mercedes that debt, and though we don't talk about it, I've not forgotten. _

_She wasn't the only one who was there for me. You were too. Despite everything, you had enough kindness in your heart to forgive me and offer your support. It is no wonder that I am in love with you. You saw the good in me where I only saw the bad. _

Rachel paused again, her breath coming out in a shuddering effort. She clenched her teeth to fight the tears which were prickling her eyes. She pulled her feet onto the bed, and rested her chin on her knees. She rubbed away the water which began leaking out at the corner of her left eye, and read on.

_You taught me the goodness I was afraid of showing. You are the reason I am no longer that insecure Cheerio, torturing the people she would rather love. You and Glee gave me a reason to feel safe, even if it meant giving up social status. But I would rather being the bottom rung if it at least meant that I could be honest and true to myself. Oh Rachel, I love you. I love you so much. _

_When I began writing as Errant, I never thought that you would fall in love with the words. But of course, when everyone else wanted to laugh, or didn't understand, you were there, falling in love. And I fell more in love with you as you fell in love with Errant. But I was afraid that you would expect Errant, the owner of those poems to be someone magnificent, someone artistic; not the girl you spent four years with, being bullied for the majority of that time by her, and were only just starting to get along with. That's why I hid it from you for so long. _

_Then came our second date. I told you I loved you, and you didn't turn your back and run down the highway in response, so I took it as a good sign. In fact, I rather fell in love with you more; I was giddy with the idea that you felt the same way, even if you couldn't articulate it. Your eyes don't lie, Rachel, and I saw the reciprocated feeling there. Made bolder by the display, I wrote you another poem, painting it onto the floor of the McKinley corridor, certain that you would see it, that everyone would see it. I thought that you would be flattered, excited, and that perhaps you would run into my arms, elated that I was Errant. I didn't realise that by not telling you, by making it such a public display of revelation, I was crushing your trust. And I'm sorry. It took me months to realise what I had done wrong, but I see it now. It was just another in a long line of mistakes concerning you - mistakes I could have prevented. If I could alter it, I would leap at the opportunity, I would sacrifice limbs, I would sacrifice all dignity, anything, but that isn't the way life works, is it? What's done is done, and some things are permanent. As much as I fear that this isn't one of those things, I believe it might be. For all I know, you've not even read this far, abandoning me long ago, but I hope you've stayed. I suspect that you will have, because you're Rachel Berry, the kindest woman I've ever known, with the biggest heart and deepest well of forgiveness of anyone. So if you have, I apologise again. I'm sorry. I'm sorry ten thousand times over, ten million times. And even if we are to never speak again, then at least I shall have on my conscience the knowledge that it was you who made that decision. And I respect that._

_If Puck did what I asked him to, then you are probably in New York, or on the way, at the very least. This box once belonged to my grandmother, a gift from her childhood, granted to me when I was young, and now I pass it to you, filled with memories of us. Just so you don't forget. I can bear the thought of it ending between us on a personal level, though the pain burns in me all the time, but I cannot fathom a life where you have forgotten. It might actually kill me to know that you didn't care enough to remember; and I say that without melodrama and in all seriousness. So please, treasure it and its contents even as I treasure my memory of you._

_Good luck Rachel Berry. Maybe I'll come see you on Broadway someday._

_With all my love, sincerity, and every last ounce of apology within my being,_

_Q._

Rachel sat there for a long time, cradling the letter in her hands. She held it away from her so the tears falling on her face would not splatter and mar the ink on the paper. She tried wiping them away on her shoulder, but there were too many for her shoulder to absorb, so she gave up, tired and lonely and with the first tendrils of depression creeping into her soul.

She was willing to sit there for the rest of her life if need be; at least the thought flitted through her mind, before her strong self commanded it away. It scampered like a child chastened by a stern parent. She folded the letter, carefully, ever so carefully, and placed it where it was before, atop the other papers and photographs. She gripped the two sides of the old box, and they groaned as they met, hitting each other with a thud. Swiftly, Rachel flicked the clasp, and the box locked with a click. She then returned it to its home beneath her bed.

Despite all her years of having the box in her possession, she had never once looked through its contents, other than the topmost letter. Every time she opened it with the intention to finally look through them, her resolve would melt into oblivion the moment she saw that letter. Guilt weighed on her chest, and loneliness wrapped itself around her heart like a suffocating blanket every time she saw it. And she would miss Quinn more than she imagined she could; each time felt worse than the last. But maybe next time, she thought to herself, maybe next time she would look through the contents of that box. It wasn't that she was afraid of forgetting, it was that she was afraid of remembering. For all the years which had passed, she still didn't forgive herself for the way she left Quinn standing there after graduation. Rachel was afraid of looking into that box and facing the worst mistake she had ever made.

She curled up, lying on her side and pulled the opposite side of the duvet over self so that she was wrapped, cocoon-like between the two sides. She tried to rest, but her mind would not sleep. It was consumed by Quinn, by the honest, heartfelt letter, and the box of still mysterious content. She lay there for hours, dazed and lost in thoughts of the other girl. With the screeching of the alarm clock at 6am, came, unbidden, startled into existence by the sound, was the thought she had been desperately avoiding all night: Quinn was in New York!

She dragged herself out of bed and began her day, throwing herself into her activities without mercy, hoping they would purge Quinn from her mind. It worked, temporarily. Until she took herself down to the theatre to prepare for that night's performance and found a single red rose lying on her dresser. And then suddenly the presence of Quinn couldn't feel more real.


	14. Chapter 14

"Rachel, honey, relax, it's just a flower. And a beautiful one too," David urged, clutching Rachel's elbow and looking into her eyes, willing her to be calm. She shook her head and fought the feelings which clawed the way up her chest, leaving puncture wounds in her lungs and heart; she was sure she was bleeding internally from the stress.

"It's a red rose. Look at it! How is it just a flower? A flower is never just a flower," she panicked, glancing at the rose as though she expected it to leap to life at any moment and attack her. "It's Quinn, I bet it's Quinn. Mark said she was in New York, and she said that she would see me on Broadway one day, and oh god, it's happening, isn't it? She's watching the shows and sending me flowers. Didn't she imagine that it would freak me out like this? Didn't she know that I would panic? David, what the hell do I do?"

"You don't know they're from her. You could be seeing monsters where there are only shadows. People love you, it could be anyone sending you those flowers. Just take a breath. Everything's ok," he said, leading her to a seat. People milled past, offering small smiles of congratulations for another successful performance. Digging into her training, Rachel smiled back; it wouldn't do for them to know that anything was wrong. David she trusted, but the rest of them would as soon see her bleeding in a dark alleyway. Even as she thought it, she knew she was being harsh, but her paranoia and shock wouldn't let her think otherwise, despite the fact she considered all her cast mates friends. It was only when they were gone from sight that she lapsed back into her panic, her face growing worried and wild. David shook his head at her and lay his hand on her shoulder.

"I think," Rachel began, but paused, her voice struggling. She tried again, "I think I just need to go home. I can't be here, it's freaking me out. If it's her, why doesn't she just tell me? Why all the secrecy? Besides, I can't have all these people staring at me, it's unbecoming. Sometimes I wish I'd never known her," she sighed. David suppressed a small smile; there wasn't any conviction in Rachel's tone, and he knew beneath it all, she was nervous that this might mean that she and Quinn would meet again, after all those years. He knew she would deny it, but she would jump at the chance.

Nevertheless, holding onto her elbow again for support, he led her out through the stage door. Like every other night, a small crowd was assembled, waiting to see the star of the musical, and like every other time, Rachel rose to the occasion, smiling and making small talk, thanking her fans and signing their playbills. David was proud of her; not many people could pull off something so trivial when they were going through an emotional crisis.

A dash of red flashed in the corner of her eye; Rachel whipped her head around, and found her nose buried in a red rose. Shocked at the contact, she stumbled backwards, almost falling on David, who caught her and righted her. She dragged her eyes up the arm which held the rose and sought the face of its owner. The smile on his face lit up the alleyway.

"Hey Rach. Long time no see."

"Finn!" Rachel gasped, hand flying to her mouth to cover her shock; it wouldn't do well to have people see her with her mouth gaping open like some silly schoolgirl. He laughed and took the hand from her mouth, pressing his lips to the knuckles before placing the rose in her palm.

"I missed you, Rachel," he half shrugged, grinning. "By the way, you were great tonight. I'm real glad that you got here, where you always dreamed of being. You lit up that stage."

"Oh, thank you Finn. I hope you don't take this the wrong way, but I'm surprised to see you here. But at the same time, glad that you came to see the show! I know you weren't really a fan of the play when I forced you to watch it with me in high school," she murmured, embarrassed by this encounter, and not at all sure how to act around the boy she hadn't seen since high school; she'd come a long way since then.

"Aw, nah, it's no big deal. I came to appreciate a lot of things that I didn't used to like, you know? I learnt how to appreciate beautiful things," he said, turning his head a little and looking her directly in the eye. A half smile graced his lips. Taken aback, something fluttered in Rachel's stomach. She broke the eye contact, staring at the rose he'd given her.

She could feel him smiling as she observed the flower. It was easier to look at the rose than it was to look at him. He was so different, older. Time had helped him mature well; he had built the muscles in his arms, and was more lean than she remembered. A light dusting of facial hair graced his cheeks and chin.

"So did you get the roses I sent you? I had to do some persuading of your security, but the guy finally believed me. Said he'd leave them for you. Did he?" Finn asked, and Rachel met his eyes again. She nodded.

"Yes, thank you. I was wondering who they were from," she smiled. A thought crossed her mind. "Oh, and thank you for the gardenias from the other day as well. They were beautiful."

"Um, sorry, I don't know what gardenias you're talking about," he frowned, and one look at his face assured Rachel that he wasn't lying; Finn had never been good at concealing his emotions. If he were lying, it would be written all over his face.

"Oh, sorry, I just assumed…" Rachel trailed off. Finn was unabashed.

"Ah that's ok. You must have a lot of admirers who want to send you flowers. Can't blame them," he said, smiling down at her. Had he gotten taller since they'd last seen each other? Rachel found it hard to believe, considering the height difference which had already existed between them. But if he hadn't gotten any taller, then neither had she. She realised that the distance between them had nothing to do with height; it was the rift time had torn between them. He looked like the Finn she had known, but there was something different; the way he carried himself - confident, like a man who knew what he wanted from life, not like the lost boy she had last known in school. She found herself looking down at her hands, not sure how to proceed; it was an awkwardness she was not at all used to feeling.

"It's been great seeing you again Finn, and thanks for coming to the show, but it's late and I really have to go. David's meant to take me home," she said, injecting apology into her voice and gesturing to the other man who stood to the side, out of the way. Finn nodded, glancing at him.

"Are you two…?" he asked, crossing his arms across his chest. Rachel nearly laughed.

"No! Oh gosh no. We're just friends, that's all. Good friends, but friends nonetheless," Rachel assured, finding herself oddly wishing that Finn believed her. David stepped forward, looking Finn in the eye.

"I'm the director of the production," he smiled, extending his hand. Finn stared at it for a fraction of a second before shaking it. He nodded.

"Cool. In that case, Rach, you free Saturday night? Saturday is the matinee performance, right? You got the night off?"

"Um, yes, I do. Sure, sure, I'm free this Saturday. What did you have in mind?" Rachel spluttered, more and more surprised by this new Finn Hudson. He grinned.

"Remember the last time the two of us were in New York together? Remember the date I took you on?" he reminded, and Rachel nodded, heart in her mouth. Finn grinned wider in answer. "I'll pick you up at seven," he added, handing her a folded piece of paper. Opening it, she found a row of numbers written on it in Finn's hand.

"Ok. I'll see you then," she smiled, scribbling her address down on a spare bit of paper littering her pocket, and Finn thanked her as she handed it to him. He gave a small wave before he turned. She watched him walk away down the alley, trying to make sense of her surprise, before turning to face David. He raised his eyebrows at her, a smirk poorly concealed on his face. Rachel linked her arm with his and pulled him the opposite way.

"Friend of yours?" David asked, the all knowing smirk evident in his voice. Rachel gave a light tug at his arm for his jest.

"Was it really that obvious?" she innocently asked, playing along. David made sounds of thinking in the back of his throat, dragging out the moment longer than it ought to have gone on. He was still making sounds of musing when they reached his car. Rachel gave him a light punch on the arm before disentangling herself from him and slipping into the passenger side.

David drove Rachel home, and though he tried to make conversation, Rachel kept deflecting his questions. Eventually, he gave up with the knowledge that for the moment, she wanted to keep her thoughts to herself. Silence descended on the occupants of the car, and David realised that being driven through New York City was Rachel's favourite time to think, the bright, artificial lights spilling into the car's interior, briefly illuminating the dashboard with reds and greens and blues, before sliding away, melting into the left behind street. Simultaneously, she was part of the city, and yet contained, away from it; it comforted her, knowing that she wasn't alone when she was alone.

Rachel didn't begin to voice her thoughts until the two of them were both seated in her apartment, drinks in their respective glasses; this time David had chosen the orange juice, not having the heart to tell Rachel that he hated her coffee. He sipped at the juice as Rachel gazed into the depths of the off television, as if trying to divine something from its black screen. David waited. Eventually, Rachel sighed and turned to him. He could see from her eyes that her encounter with that Finn boy had shaken her.

"Do you believe in soul mates?"

He paused a moment, seeking a truthful answer. His eyes roamed about the room as he thought, looking at everything, but not seeing anything, the various pieces of décor all the same to him. All except one. His attention was captured by a small motorcycle replica, sitting on the bookshelf. It was so unlike the rest of the oddments Rachel had collected and furnished her apartment with, that he couldn't help but stare. Even from where he sat, it gleamed, not a speck of dust clinging to its carefully painted surface, a contrast to the shelf upon which it sat, with its thin layer of dust. A memory stirred within him, of Rachel and himself, sitting upon that very same couch, she speaking, and he listening to a recount of a first date. He smiled.

"Yes, I believe in soul mates. I believe that some people find that one person they can't be without. I believe that those people, when they're apart, are never satisfied with anyone else. I don't think they feel incomplete without each other, but not quite content, like life's not as bright as they know it could be, the way they knew it to be when they were together," he answered. Rachel frowned and her teeth found her lower lip and began chewing on it.

"But do you think they're meant to be together?"

"I think if they're not together they'll find a way to be, but I think that if life doesn't work out that way for them, they can survive without the other, just not quite as happy as they would have been if they were together. It's almost a paradox; they're meant to be together, but they'll be ok if they're not."

"Hm," Rachel voiced, and then seemed to come to her senses, "but where's all this coming from? David, have you found someone? And you didn't tell me?"

David laughed at Rachel's disgruntled disbelief. Of course she didn't see that he was using her as his source of enlightenment.

"No honey, I haven't found anyone. Don't you think that if I'd found a man, I'd tell you? Besides, according to media reports, you and I are seeing each," he laughed, and after a moment, Rachel laughed along with him. And once started, they didn't seem able to stop. They laughed till they shook, and tears streamed down their faces. They clutched their sides as they flopped back onto the couch. It was only when they couldn't get enough air into their lungs that they forced themselves to stop, taking deep breaths in between fits of giggles.

"I can't believe they're actually saying that!" Rachel exclaimed. David nodded, still giggling.

"I know. I don't have the heart to tell them I'm gay!" he added, and this sent them into another fit of laughter. As Rachel wiped the tears from her eyes again, she tried to voice the question in her mind, sombre though it was.

"So, if you're single, how is it you're so wise about soul mates?"

"I listen to my heart," David smiled, "and I observe people around me. It's how I learn. You should try it sometime, honey."

"But how do you know they're your soul mate?" Rachel asked, ignoring the jibe aimed at her. "I keep half expecting a knock at my door and for them to be there, like 'hello, I'm your soul mate.'"

"But soul mates don't just come a-knocking, Rae," David reminded gently. Rachel sighed.

"I know."

"It would be nice though."

They sat in silence, waiting for something to happen, for some thought to cross their minds, appropriate to the conversation. The longer they waited, the less anything felt like it should be said. The rap of knuckles on the front door saved them from having to think of a topic of conversation. David raised his eyebrows at Rachel in surprise and found her doing the same towards him. He frowned.

"At this time of night?"

"It is New York, the city that never sleeps," Rachel shrugged, pushing herself off the couch to get the door. David watched with a mixed sense of curiosity and fear; exactly, it was New York - nothing was to be trusted, least of all a late night knock on an apartment door. Rachel pulled it open and found no one; whoever had been there had gone, no trace of who they might be left behind. Rachel turned to frown at David. He jerked his chin in her direction, urging her to look again. A small cardboard box sat on the threshold, innocent and inconspicuous. Rachel picked it up and shut the door.

"Ideas?" she asked, placing it on her lap. She treated it gingerly, as though it might be a bomb that could go off at any second. David shook his head. "Only one way to find out then," Rachel sighed, and tore off the tape holding the box shut. From where he was sitting, David couldn't see anything, and for a brief moment thought it was a hoax, some kid knocking and running, leaving an empty box as a prank. Then Rachel pulled out a folded piece of paper; no, a map, he realised, of the city. They exchanged a glance.

Rachel unfolded the map, frowning as the paper whispered in protest. New York revealed itself, one panel at a time, simplified down to blank blocks of land and green areas of grass, bound by the blue river, which in reality was more brown than blue. Her eyes scanned the paper, looking for a clue as to why on earth it was left in a box outside her apartment in the middle of the night. David had shuffled closer, and together, the two of them poured over the map, searching.

"There!" David said, pointing at the paper. Following his finger, Rachel immediately saw it, a small black X on the paper, in the green that was Central Park. She glanced at David and found him staring at her.

"What do you think…?" she began quietly. He shrugged with an unsure kind of resignation.

"X marks the spot?"

"I guess."

"Who would send you that?" David asked, worry tinting his voice. Rachel shook her head.

"I have no idea. But I think this map just might lead me to find out."

"Oh no. No. Don't you dare!" David forbade, realising what Rachel meant to do, "there is no way you are going to this place. You have no idea what might be waiting for you. Some map dropped outside your apartment this late at night, inviting you to Central Park is not a safe sign. This city is full of crazies. You don't know what you might be getting into. Please Rae."

"You're right, you're completely right," she sighed after a long moment, "it spells trouble. I won't go. I promise."

David leant back into the embrace of the couch, still looking at Rachel. She could sense his disapproval, his wariness. She put a hand on his arm.

"Hey, I promise. Whoever this creep is, I'm not playing their game. It's probably just Finn anyway, trying to be romantic. I'll call him tomorrow, and I, under no circumstances will go to the park. Ok?"

"He needs some help in that department, if it's your boyfriend trying to be romantic," David growled.

"He's not my boyfriend! And he can be romantic when he wants to be. Besides, maybe he's gotten better at it since I last saw him," she defended, annoyed that David was calling Finn her boyfriend already, when they hadn't even been on a date yet. At the same time, the epithet caused a small thrill to shoot up her spine.

"Alright, alright, he's not your boyfriend. But Rae, whatever you do, don't go to this place. X might mark the spot, but the people it's meant for never seemed to end well. Be safe, Rachel."

With another assurance from Rachel, David forced himself to his feet, excusing himself. It was late. Rachel saw him out with one more assurance that she would not go to Central Park, and satisfied, he kissed her on the cheek then disappeared down the hall and into the night. Closing the door behind her, Rachel picked up the map, staring at the tantalising black mark. Almost unconsciously, she memorised the spot, imagining where it was in reality, and wondering whether she had been there before on one of her walks during her days off. With a final sigh, she threw the map onto the round dining table and went to bed, trying to convince herself that David was right and that it would be a bad idea to go. But she fell asleep with a small voice in the back of her head telling her to go.


	15. Chapter 15

Rachel stared at the map, still lying on the table where she'd left it the night before. She traced the outline of Central Park with her eyes, studiously avoiding the little black X, only to find that her eyes unwillingly flitted back to it, drawn the way a moth is drawn to light. Lightly, she touched the tip of her forefinger to the X. Common sense told her it was folly to go, but instinct whispered louder, urged on by curiosity. She bit her lip, but made a decision, folding the map up and stuffing it inside her bag. Grabbing her keys, she headed for the door. With one hand on the doorknob, she hesitated. Twisting on the heel of her foot, she strode back inside, heading to her bedroom where she opened her closet and pulled a tiny box from the backmost corner. Gingerly, she opened the lid, revealing a Swiss Army knife, a gift from one of her college friends; they'd taken her hiking one weekend, and Rachel, much to her amazement, loved it - the knife was a celebration of that discovery. She slipped it into the front pocket of her bag, close at hand. She didn't know what might await her at the spot marked with an X, but she wasn't stupid enough to go ill prepared; this was New York and not everyone was benevolent.

She wondered about it as she made her way to the Park, barely seeing her surroundings as she caught the subway. Who on earth would leave a package with a map outside her apartment in the middle of the night? It was all so very mysterious, and ignited the spark of adventure that Rachel nursed within herself. At the same time, she worried. David had been right, the city was full of crazies, and she was well known; it probably wouldn't have been that hard for an obsessed fan to find out where she lived and lure her into an ambush. As she emerged at 103 St, she realised she hadn't been very intelligent in picking a time to investigate either. She'd spent much of the day doing the cleaning around her apartment, then going to the gym, before coming back and pouring obsessively over the map. Now, the afternoon sun was sending its last few rays of golden light over the horizon, bathing the skyscrapers in an orange glow. In the park, twilight had already fallen, a grey-purple blanket smothering everything. But Rachel pressed on ahead; she was too curious now to go back, even if the logical part of her brain told her that it might be dangerous.

She didn't need the map to know where she was going, and carefully made her way over the ground, leaving the park's path and heading off down into the forest, away from the concrete and glass and steel. She picked her way through the foliage, brushing aside tangles of leaves and hanging spider webs. Her footsteps crunched on the dead leaves, and for a moment she panicked, knowing that if there was someone waiting for her, they would easily hear her here, where the sounds of the city were deadened by the trees. Putting the thought out of her mind, trusting that the person who'd sent her the map meant her no harm, she continued, and soon heard the bubble of a stream. The Loch was a tiny stream, trickling through the northern part of Central Park, and as soon as Rachel heard the running water, she knew that's where she was headed. She'd never been there before, but as any resident of New York knew, the Loch was one of the most natural, secluded places in the park. She kept walking, but put a hand on the knife in her bag, reassured by its metal surface.

The light was darker now, the trees blocking out even the twilight. Everything was grey, dark, and Rachel's eyes strained to see ahead. Something to her right caught her attention. She swivelled her head and saw that it was a light, a yellow beacon amongst the dark. Wary, she moved towards it; light was better than this dark which descended around her. She came to the bank of the stream and looked in both directions. To her left was only darkness, to her right, the glow of the light, which she saw was a candle light inside a lantern, hanging from the low branch of a tree. Beyond that, she could see another, a small speck in the darkness. She bit her lip. This must be it; there was nothing else around to indicate that it had been set up by the mysterious sender of the map. Still, she was hesitant to take the next step towards it.

She strode forward in an attempt to inject more confidence into herself, one step, and then another. On the third step, her foot caught on something. Rachel was thrown forward, landing hard on her side, on the slope of the bank. She rolled downwards toward the stream, towards the rocks which lined it. Scrambling, she tried to find a hold. The leaves slid out from beneath her hands and feet. Her heart had climbed into her mouth, beating at a pace too fast for her to believe. Her blood ran cold. Something scratched her bare stomach where her shirt had ridden up from the slide, and she grunted in pain. Her fingers brushed something hard and she grabbed, hoping it was rooted in the ground and wouldn't give way. For a brief moment she thought it would, but to her relief, it held, and with an aching arm, she stopped her descent. Somewhere above her, a twig cracked loudly, and there was a crunch of leaves. Rachel's heart stopped, and she scrambled to right herself. Going to grab her bag and the safety of the knife, she felt her stomach drop as she realised it wasn't on her arm anymore.

Panicked, she glanced around. She needed to find that bag, she needed that knife. What if the sound was the person who'd sent her the map? What if they were dangerous? Then she saw it, higher up on the slope, caught on a broken branch. Rachel began to walk haphazardly up the slope, crouching low to keep from slipping. Even so, several times her feet gave out from under her and she found herself falling to her knees, adding bruises to her bruises. Falling for the fourth time, she gave up trying to walk and surrendered herself to crawling instead. If the sounds she heard belonged to somebody, they were still out of sight, so she had no dignity to uphold. Better to crawl than to end up sliding down to the stream again. It worked. In no time, with even more scratched knees and hands, she made it up the top of the slope, where she could one again see the lantern, her bag safely slung over one shoulder. There was still no one in sight, and the forest was quiet, save for the sound of the water and the distant sounds of the omnipresent traffic. But just in case, Rachel slipped the knife out of her bag and held it in hand; she could never be too careful.

She started forward again, this time shuffling her feet, wary of other roots which might be hidden on the forest floor, ready to sacrifice her to the Loch. The lantern loomed closer, casting an iridescent circle of light over the spot from which it hung. Rachel stopped on the edge of its light and lifted up her shirt, examining the gash on her stomach. An angry red line marked the skin. Some minuscule beads of blood rose to the surface, but the cut wasn't deep - just a scratch. She was lucky; it could have been much worse. She wiped the blood away, wincing slightly as her abdomen stung in protest at the contact, and then let her shirt fall back to cover it. Next she examined her hands. They weren't so bad; a few grazes on her palms and forearms, but nothing that posed the threat of infection. In all, she concluded, she would be in pain for a few days, but would heal up just fine.

Satisfied, she now turned to look up at the lantern. It hung from a tree, held up by a thin piece of rope, expertly knotted. The candle flickered, but stayed alight. Frowning, Rachel noticed a folded square of paper hanging from the lantern's base. Reaching out, she touched it lightly, fascinated as it twirled in a small circle. One side of it had her name scrawled in small cursive letters. Sighing, she cut the note down with the scissor feature of her knife. At least she knew she was on the right path. Unfolding the note, she was careful not to let the paper touch her raw grazes.

_Follow the yellow lantern road._

Rachel glared at the paper. How obnoxious, giving her directions. But she supposed that if she'd followed the map to find the lantern trail, then the sender assumed she would follow other instructions too. She'd come this far, she reasoned with herself, it would be a shame to turn back.

She made her way to the next lantern, aware that the grey of the landscape was turning to black. She moved slower, not wishing for a repeat performance of her fall. It was harder now; the ground was almost invisible. But she reached the next lantern without so much as a stubbed toe. There was no note on this one, so Rachel assumed that her instructions still stood. She could see the next lantern ahead. Taking a few steps towards it, she was struck by an idea. Turning back, she hacked the rope suspending the lantern to its branch. It came loose with a snap. Rachel took it with her, holding it out in front of her to light the way.

As she shuffled from lantern to lantern, she couldn't help but think that modern day technology was a wonder, and that she was an impulsive idiot to not think of bringing along a torch with her. The lantern light was not nearly enough.

Soon the lanterns led her away from the stream and deeper into the forest. Dutifully, Rachel followed them, increasingly aware that no one knew where she was. If the person who'd organised this wanted to kill her, she had helped them along. She pushed the thought from her head; this was paranoia, her mind jumping to the worst possible conclusions. Just to be safe, she ran a list of people through her mind, trying to find someone who might have a reason to murder her and leave her to rot in the middle of Central Park. She'd wronged a few people, but none enough to force them into homicide. The thought gave her a little comfort.

The lanterns led her to a clearing. It was lined with the flickering lights, creating a shifting, transient circle of light. It must look odd from the air, Rachel caught herself thinking. Something black lay in the centre of the dale. Rachel moved towards it, cautious. She held the lantern before her, hoping to get a good look before she approached too close. It was a thin book, she realised. It looked familiar. Kneeling down, she took it up, gasping when she found that it was the playbill from her production. Her heart began hammering in her chest. Flicking it open to the front page, she found the photograph of herself obscured by a note.

_You made it. In celebration of your Broadway success, I took the liberty of buying you a ticket to an event I thought you might enjoy. Should you attend, which I hope you will, you will have the chance of finding out who I am. For now, let it suffice to say that I am a great admirer, and that you will hear from me again before the night on the ticket._

_P.S. the ticket is taped to the back._

_P.P.S. Thank you for coming. This was more exciting than dropping the ticket outside your door. And a trifle more romantic, wouldn't you say?_

Looking down at her hands and feeling the throb from her grazed stomach, she couldn't say that it had been romantic at all. If it was Finn behind all this, she was going to kill him for leading her on such a pointless chase. It was utterly frustrating. And yet, she realised as she flipped to the back of the playbill, somehow she'd already made up her mind about the mysterious event that she had a ticket for. The ticket informed her in tiny black words that it was to be used in a little over a month, at a prestigious sounding club that Rachel had never heard of. At least, she presumed it was prestigious, from the fact that she needed a ticket to attend.

However, the ticket gave no indication of what kind of event it would admit her to, whether a dance, or a poetry reading, or a dinner. In fact, other than the date, the ticket gave little information at all. One side were printed the details, the date and the time, and the event name "Imaginative Nights", which wasn't a very imaginative name in Rachel's opinion. The other side recited conditions of entry. Tucking the playbill under her arm, she picked up her lantern. It was time to go; she'd followed the lights and gotten what she'd come for, as disappointing as it was curious. It consumed her thoughts as she made her way back to the burning lights of the city.

She was lost so deep in thought that she didn't see the raised eyebrows at her lantern with its still lit candle, or the leaves in her hair from her fall. Her mind was trying to match the gesture of the ticket and the lanterns to someone – anyone - that she might have known, but kept coming up short. The fact of the matter was that anyone who wanted to invite her somewhere would have simply asked her directly, not led her into the heart of Central Park's northern woods at night just to infuriate her with anonymous invitations.

Puzzling over the identity of the sender, the admirer, the creep - Rachel still wasn't sure what the think of them as - she missed her stop. Realising too late that she'd gone too far, she changed her plans. This subway line would take her near Kurt's apartment. Having not seen him in a little while, she resolved to go there. Kurt always loved surprise visits. Rachel hoped he was home.

When she knocked on the door ten minutes later, she was greeted by a squeal of surprise, quickly followed by a frown of confusion.

"Rachel, please tell me you haven't been walking around the streets of New York looking like this," Kurt reprimanded, waving a hand at her being. She frowned at him.

"Looking like what?" she asked, pushing past him to the full length mirror in the hall. A gasp escaped her lips as she realised what he meant. She couldn't believe she'd made such a fool of herself. She reddened, praying that no one had recognised her in such a state. Shoving the lantern and playbill into Kurt's hands, she began frantically rubbing at the dirt streaking her face.

"Oh, hey there Rachel," a voice said from the other end of the corridor. "You're looking a little dishevelled. Is everything ok?"

"Blaine, can you get the moist cloths please, and a hair brush. Oh, and the disinfectant!" Kurt said before Rachel could reply. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Blaine disappear. Kurt took her hand, stopping her furious rubbing. He led her into the living room where she plonked herself down on the sofa without a glimmer of grace. She gazed around. Where her apartment was rustic, Kurt's was a blend of the modern and the vintage. Kurt and Blaine's she mentally corrected herself. The two of them had tried going their separate ways after high school, only to find that they were unsatisfied with life without the other. Looking at the life the two had built, Rachel couldn't help but think that David was right; soul mates could be without each other, but life wasn't as great. Thinking back on Kurt during their first year of college was proof of that. She was glad for both their sakes that they had come to their senses.

A moment later, Blaine returned with the items Kurt requested. Kurt stopped pulling the leaves from Rachel's hair and with a moist cloth, began gently wiping the dirt from her face and neck. Rachel herself took one, and dampening it further with the disinfectant, applied it to the grazes on her hands. The smell of the antibacterial liquid filled the room, tickling Rachel's nostrils and inviting her to sneeze.

"So what happened?" Kurt began. Rachel grimaced. She hadn't planned on talking about her adventure so soon after it happened.

"I fell at Central Park. I was walking near the Loch."

"Uh huh," said Kurt, unconvinced. "And you just happened to think the perfect time to take a hike was after sunset?"

"I was…well…no. I, I got a package last night with a map," she began, and soon enough, had explained the whole story to the two men. She could see them exchange a glance when she finished her tale.

"You followed a map from a crazy person?" Blaine asked, incredulous. She glanced at him where he leant against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest.

"Well, I don't know who they are, so I can't say they're crazy."

"You're the crazy one, actually going. But was it worth it?" Kurt asked, wiping away the last of the dirt. She shrugged and showed him the playbill with the ticket in the back.

"Are you going?" Kurt frowned, taking the playbill from her hands and examining the ticket.

"Rach, I don't think that's a good idea. This guy's playing you," Blaine advised. Rachel frowned at him, thinking.

"Maybe you're right, but I don't think they mean to hurt me. I mean, they could have killed me tonight, and nobody would've known, but they didn't."

"You almost killed yourself!" Kurt muttered, turning to pick the last few leaves from her hair, before running the hair brush through her locks.

"I don't think they were counting on that," Rachel returned quietly, "they could have easily hurt me if they wanted to. Besides, why go through all that trouble?"

"It would have been easier to hide your body there. The animals would have got to it. And no witnesses either," Blaine shrugged, while Kurt glared at him. "What? She asked."

"Look, Rachel, I think it's a bad idea too," he said, turning his eyes from Blaine to face her. "You don't know anything about this person. They could be absolutely anyone. I don't feel safe about you going to this thing. We don't even know what it is!"

"Have you ever been drawn to do something, against all your logic?" Rachel asked in a quiet voice, looking from one man to the other. "Have you ever been compelled to do something that feels so right, even though all your brain cells are telling you it's wrong? That's what it's like. I feel like I have to go."

"Of course you do, you're curious. But that doesn't mean you should do it," Blaine said. Rachel shook her head in sad frustration. They didn't understand her. She didn't understand herself, at that moment. Her gut feeling defied all logic, but when she thought about not going, her stomach clenched, and she felt sick; it was like her body was terrified of her not going. She couldn't help but feel that missing this event, whatever it was, would be a huge mistake. Something important was going to happen, something significant to her. She had to be there. She sighed. There was no way she was going to be able to explain that to these two; they looked at her as though she were crazy - and maybe she was. She wasn't so sure anymore about her sanity. She handed the disinfected cloth back to Kurt and got up.

"Thanks for everything. I think I'll go. It's late and I should get some sleep."

"Rachel…" Kurt started, but trailed off.

"No, no, thank you, I appreciate your help Kurt. But I think I should get home. Goodnight Blaine," she said to the young man, who nodded at her in return, smiling his goodnight. Kurt walked Rachel to the door.

"Please don't go to this thing, Rachel. You might be putting yourself in danger. We don't know a thing about whoever sent you this."

"Kurt, please. I'm a grown woman, and I can make my own decisions. Besides, this isn't for another month yet. I have some time to make up my mind."

"Let me drive you home," Kurt offered, opening the door for her. Rachel shook her head.

"No, it's ok, I'll get a cab. It would be out of your way to take me home. I'm close by anyway."

Kurt looked at her a long minute before sighing. "Fine."

"I'll be ok, relax Kurt," she said, pulling him into a one armed hug. He squeezed her tight for a moment before letting go.

"Night, Rachel."

"Goodnight, Kurt."

When she got home, there was a note on her threshold, having been shoved under her door. It was in Finn's handwriting.

_You up for something tomorrow? Call me._

Sighing, she folded the note up and threw it on the table, where it landed on top of the New York map. Exhausted and sore, she climbed into bed, not bothering to take her clothes off.


	16. Chapter 16

Rachel stood beside Finn, her shadow swamped by his gigantic figure. She scratched at her arm, trying to find something of purchase to stabilise her feelings. He was confident, his hands shoved casually into the pockets of his jeans. She stared out over the abyss, her heart in her mouth.

"Are you sure about this?" she asked in a small voice. Finn laughed and turned to face her, his hands cupping her face.

"Of course I'm sure. It's fun. Besides, you're harnessed in, and trust me, those things can hold a hell of a lot of weight, and you're tiny," he assured, stroking a cheek with his thumb. Rachel stopped herself from leaning into the touch, so familiar, the same reassuring touch she'd loved when they were in high school. Instead, she took a deep breath to dispel the fluttering in her stomach, and looked over the abyss again, and the cable she was currently strapped to. She shook her head, the helmet she wore uncomfortably heavy. This was ridiculous. The flying fox descended into the gap, stretching from one side of the valley to the other, a single length of cable; the thought of sliding down it with nothing else holding her in the air terrified her.

"I can't possibly jump off the edge," she said to Finn, stepping even further away from the wooden platform she was meant to take off from.

"Hey," Finn murmured, taking her hand, "you know that feeling you get after you've done something terrifying? Isn't that all worth these few seconds of fear? You just have to take that first leap of faith," he softly encouraged, his voice more gentle than she was used to hearing from him. It seemed time had altered him in more ways than she imagined. The old Finn would have been getting frustrated with her by now. "And besides," he added, "you're Rachel Berry. You're fearless!"

"That's a lie," she argued, but laughed. It was nice to see someone have faith in her; it reminded her of old times, when everyone she knew believed she would achieve exactly what she wanted to achieve. It wasn't something she got a lot of anymore; adulthood was certainly dull. "Ok," she whispered, made bolder by Finn's words, and she stepped up to the edge. She crept closer; slow and steady, she told herself. A shiver wracked her entire body, anticipation and fear, and the beginning of a thrill. Her toes stuck out over the wooden platform. Her entire body seemed to enter a different state of being, every fibre gripped by paradoxical urges to jump and to flee. She stood there for a long second, taking it in, clenching her fists at her sides, holding her breath.

"You can do it Rachel," she heard from behind her. Finn, giving her courage, even from the sidelines.

"You don't have to jump," the attendant a few metres away told her, "you could just sit down in your harness, if that helps. It takes away that scary second of freefall before the cable catches your weight."

"No, I'm going to jump," she smiled, and bending her knees, took the leap.

As soon as her feet left solid ground, she realised she left her stomach and innards behind. Zipping down the cable at exhilarating speed, she laughed, loud and free and in love with the feeling of having no ground beneath her, her terror from a second before gone, fled in the face of this thrill. An elated cry ripped itself from her lungs, filling the valley with the sound of her joy. She threw her hands up in the air, triumph and excitement adding strength to the gesture. For those too few seconds, she felt like she was flying, and understood, for the first time in her life, why mankind had been compelled to take to the air.

When she landed softly on the platform at the other end of the valley, spine tingling adrenaline making every cell in her body a livewire, her only thought was to race back up to the top and jump again. The grin on her face would not leave, plastered to her face like a permanent fixture. This is what she imagined being on drugs felt like. She didn't want to upset the high, clinging to it, basking in it, revelling.

Moments later, she was joined by Finn, who stepped as easily onto the platform as if he'd done it a thousand times before. And perhaps he had; he'd been in the military, Rachel recalled, in the intervened years between high school and the present. He'd told her that he'd skipped college in favour of an army life. That's what had changed him. Rachel was glad; she had no doubt that if he'd gone to college, he would still be that unconfident, goofy boy she'd known, unable to see himself doing something worthwhile in his life. Now, with the attendant unscrewing the clip which held him to the cable, he was full of a quiet grace and ease with the world, like he knew he'd carved a place for himself in it that he liked.

"You did it! You jumped! I'm so proud of you, Rach!" he exclaimed, his eyes shining from his own taste of adrenaline, and embraced her.

"You're right, it was totally worth those few seconds of terror. I can't believe I've never done anything like this before! I have to admit, I was doubting this day out when you told me where we were going, but I'm so glad it turned out, because that was _amazing_!" she squealed into his chest. Extracting herself from his grip, she bounced from foot to foot. "I feel like I can do anything now. I almost want to take off running, just because I can."

"Well then," Finn grinned, "first one back to the adventure centre is a rotten apple."

Rachel turned and bolted, leaving Finn in her wake. He caught up with her in a matter of seconds and gently bumped her shoulder with his. Slowing so they were side by side, they giggled, breathless and tingling from their jump. They emerged from the forest, at the foot of the mountain, and began their mad dash across the carefully manicured grass to the visitor centre. Rachel pushed herself further, gaining a little on Finn. Competitiveness took over and she focused her attention on making it first to that building, looming larger and nearer with every step that she took. For a moment, she even forgot about Finn, somewhere behind her. At least until she was knocked off her feet, cradled in the arms of the large man, still running. Jumping in her surprise at her loss of contact with the ground, she startled Finn, who stumbled, falling forward, Rachel still in his arms. The lurched, landing on the grass in a giggling mass of tangled limbs.

"You!" Rachel shrieked in mock anger, punching Finn lightly on the shoulder as his body shook with laughter. Disentangling herself, she lay on the grass beside him, and stared at the blue sky, at the perfect picturesque white clouds. Next to her, she could feel Finn roll onto his side and prop himself up on an elbow. She let her eyes find his, still filled to the brim with laughter. Unable to help herself, she grinned back. She felt young again, not plagued by worry, and choreography and stage directions so drilled into her she could have performed them in her sleep. She felt like a teenager again, when Broadway was still on the horizon, when the world still felt like an optimistic place, cheerful and light.

Finn reached out and brushed a strand of hair away from her face. Gently, he removed a piece of grass which had become lodged in it. Rachel shivered, surprising herself; she hadn't shivered at the touch of someone for a long time. Not since - she struggled to think - not since Quinn, she admitted to herself. It made a nice change, to feel something caused by someone else. That's why when Finn lowered his head, and his lips found hers, she didn't resist.

His lips were soft against hers, soft and warm and familiar. And yet, at the same time, unfamiliar. She was no longer the one in control; Finn was the initiator, the aggressor; not that he was very aggressive, but it was a difference from the last kisses they'd shared. It was terrible, she knew, to compare every small thing between Finn now and the Finn she knew then, but it was reflexive, and the differences were vast. She felt something twinge inside her core, something long dormant, something which was suddenly as hungry as a bear emerging from hibernation. She fought it, not ready for that. Not yet. It was too soon after being reunited. But it was nice to know she could still be turned on by someone; after such a long absence of it, she'd been slightly afraid that she'd lost sexual interest in people.

"Oh," she gasped, pulling away, remembering, "was it you who left a map of New York in a box outside my apartment two nights ago?"

"A map of New York? No. Why would I do something like that? Sorry, it wasn't me. What was it for?" he asked, leaving a light trail of kisses along her jaw, making it hard for her to remember what it was she was talking about.

"Um, nothing. Don't worry about it. Probably some kid playing a prank," she lied, the untruth spilling out of her as easily as the air she breathed. Somehow it felt wrong to tell Finn the truth. But if it hadn't been him, who had it been? Someone who had thought the gesture was romantic. Some vague thought niggled at the back of her mind, indistinct and intangible. It melted into mist when she tried to grab at it. As Finn's mouth found hers again, she forgot all about it.

"No. Wait. We have to go. We can't do this," she said, coming to her senses and pushing against Finn's chest, telling him to get off her. He relented, looking disappointed, but not surprised.

"Too fast? It's too fast. God, Rachel, I'm so sorry. Sometimes I forget how long it's been," he apologised, sitting up, and grabbing her hand to help her too.

"Yes, it's too fast. I'm sorry, Finn, but you're right, we haven't seen each other for a long time, it wouldn't be prudent if we threw ourselves into this again, not after years of not seeing or talking to one another. We need to become reacquainted."

"You're right. So, Saturday still stands?"

"Of course. I look forward to it," Rachel smiled, "but for now, let's take it slow."

Finn nodded. Standing up, he helped Rachel up. He grinned.

"Ready to do the flying fox again?"

Rachel almost jumped into his arms.

In all, the day passed in a haze of adrenaline and extreme sports, and when Finn pulled his car up outside Rachel's apartment building in the late afternoon, they were both contently exhausted. They sat in his car for a few moments, watching the yellow taxis zoom past, winding their way through the city to some unknown destination, the worker ants of the huge colony. Finn's hand slid into Rachel's, and he leaned forward to place a kiss on her forehead. Rachel gave him a smile in return.

"I should go," she sighed, not eager to leave the comfort of the car. Finn nodded.

"But I'll see you on Saturday. That's only three days away," he grinned, then kissed Rachel's hand, "I'm looking forward to it."

"Me too," Rachel assured, before climbing out of the car and trudging into her building, her feet struggling to step up the stairs. She looked over her shoulder before she pushed the front door of her building open, and waved one last goodbye to Finn. He was still there when the door swung shut behind her.

Her body faintly buzzed as she stood in the elevator, waiting for it to bring her to her floor. She leant against the side of the lift, struggling to hold up her own weight in her exhaustion. She closed her eyes, losing herself to the sensation of rising. When the door pinged to tell her that it was her floor, she could barely open her eyes again. She dragged her feet, shuffling along the carpeted corridor until she reached her door, one of two on this floor of the building. And stopped, three feet away from it.

Stuck to her door, with a small piece of masking tape, was a note on crumpled and dirty paper. Even from a metre away, she could recognise the handwriting, though she hadn't seen it in years. A shiver raced down her spine, and her entire body, from the tips of her fingers to the top of her head tingled. Alertness washed over her the way tiredness had just a moment before. She shot glances down either side of the corridor, hoping to catch a glimpse of pink or black. Nothing. She returned her attention to the note, aware that the poster had long since disappeared. With a trembling hand, she tugged it off the door.

_Once we walked a timid life,  
>Like on a tightrope,<br>Or the edge of a knife.  
>The mind oft forgets,<br>But the heart, it does not,  
>Keeping close our deep regrets,<br>So we may visit them forever.  
>Ask if I miss you,<br>And I will say never.  
>Ask not if I love you,<br>For I will be forced to lie,  
>Hoping you feel the same as I do.<br>Do not fret; my heart is all yours.  
>This is why I'm reduced to poems on doors.<em>

Rachel gritted her teeth and pushed her front door open with so much force that it hit the wall and bounced back. She slammed it shut with such force that the floor rattled. She fought the urge to scream, biting it back even as it rose in her throat. Throwing herself onto her couch, she drew her knees to her chin and growled in frustration. But she didn't let go of the poem. It trembled in her hand.

Why? Why did this happen to her now? When she had some semblance of happiness, and a chance at a romance, why did this have to come along and tear open the old wounds and let out all the old feelings which had crawled away like vampires in the light? She wanted it gone, she wanted life to be normal, easy, she wanted to fall in love and not have to doubt the validity of her feelings because there was another lurking on the fringes of memory and lust. She threw her arm out, punching the backrest of the couch with the side of her fist. The force sent a tremor through her arm, and she clenched her muscles, prepared to do it again, to release all the pent up frustration that suddenly blossomed in her chest.

Realising it wouldn't be enough, she stood, dropping the poetic note and not noticing where it fluttered to a rest. Rummaging through a cupboard, she pulled out two red boxing gloves, not often used, and pulled them onto her fists. Eyeing the punching bag hanging in one corner of the apartment, like a long dead man with a new historic relevance, and striding up to it with fierce determination, she drew her arm back and pounded her fist into it. The bag swung away from the force, and on its backswing, Rachel met it with the other fist. Head ducked low, fists held high, anger flooding her entire being, she punched and punched, striking out at the red fabric, feeling it dimple beneath her blow, emptying herself of frustration one tidbit at a time.

By the time she collapsed onto her couch later, an exhausted mess of ebbing anger and growing despair, she was glad she had taken Blaine up on his suggestion of a punching bag as a method of anger management. She felt better about getting the anger out, but now that there was nothing to combat it, to drown it or to hide it, her helplessness was taking over, extending its suctioned tentacles and attaching them to the inside of her chest, making it hard to breathe. She sunk lower into the embrace of her couch, the familiarity of it holding her close, comforting her. She thought of David and the conversations they'd had sitting on, of Kurt and Blaine, of the times they'd had drinking tea and coffee sitting there, she thought of Finn, and perhaps one day lying down on it with him. And instinctively, she thought of Quinn, of pulling her down on top of her, on top of that couch. A shiver spread from between her shoulder blades to the tips of her fingers, leaving a trail of gooseflesh in its wake. Using her hands, she tried to rub them away, and though they faded, the thought, the memory of the thought, and the lust it entailed did not.

She lay on her side, curling up into a foetal shape, no longer Rachel Berry, Broadway star, but Rachel Berry, insecure, unsure, still a child. Wrapping one arm over her head to somehow block the scene from playing out in her mind, she blotted out the New York lights, swimming across the walls as the light of cars was reflected back and forth from the street, up the buildings, like an ever moving vine of neon colours. With the sound of that traffic, as constant as the sound of waves washing against the shore, Rachel slept, deeply and dreamlessly, too tired and worn to let the plague of fears haunt her dreams as well as her waking hours.


	17. Chapter 17

The night had embraced New York City, deepening the shadows between the skyscrapers, like furrows on an old woman's face. The moon shone over the buildings, too small against their hulking structures, and the stars, invisible to those who trod the ground, watched over them, guardians never recognised. The tranquility that the night brought to New York was lost on Rachel, who woke irritated and annoyed at the confines of her apartment. With no sense of where she was going to go, she snatched her bag up off the floor, and left her apartment without a backwards glance, with a sense of relief filling her chest the further she walked away from it.

She burst into the night with a deep breath of the New York air. Not knowing where she ought to go, she wandered, walking the streets she was familiar with, until, indiscernibly, they melted into streets she had never seen before. Street corners looked different, more sinister, like Malice crept in the shadows, ready to pounce at anyone who happened to wander too close. Rachel avoided them, keeping to the yellow pools of light emanating from rusting streetlamps. The quiet streets eyed her warily, this stranger who appeared, as out of place here as a smile at a funeral; she walked on, uncomfortable in this silent judgement.

Decrepit blocks of apartments leered at her with boarded up windows and fire escapes eaten away by rust. Even the graffiti looked sinister in the shadows. Rachel didn't see a single other soul, though once she heard shouts as she passed a block of units with one of the windows missing. She'd quickened her pace, not willing to hear something she didn't want to hear. So this was it, she realised, the part of New York people warned you about, that you could go your whole life without seeing, but that lurked there in shadows, just as alive as any other part of the city. If the life Rachel knew was all decent living with not much of a struggle, then this half the city was that life's evil twin. The thought made her shiver.

She stumbled past what used to be a shop, the front window spiderwebbed with cracks, painted over with layers of graffiti. Peering in as she walked by, Rachel could see broken chairs, blanketed with dust. On the wall was a stain that could either have been rust, leaking down after years of neglect, or blood, long dried and blackened; in the dim light from the streetlamp, Rachel couldn't tell. She hurried her steps.

Across the street, with a spire that reached into the sky, reaching an escape, a divinity non existent in its neighbourhood, was a church, just as desolate looking as the rest of its surrounds. The door had once been boarded, but someone had long since kicked it in, and it splintered, leaving a gaping hole behind. Metal mesh covered the outside of its stained glass windows, as if attempting to keep in some of the church's inherent goodness. Graffiti was sprayed across the sandstone bricks, black with grime. Rachel stopped and stared at it. Something in her chest tugged her towards the church. She balanced on the balls of her feet, ready to take off towards it at any moment, but she was hesitant, rocking back onto her heels, before repeating the process again. She took one step forward, standing with one foot on the road, and the other on the kerb.

Whatever was pulling her forwards was screaming at her now, trying to drown out the voice of uncertainty. Rachel shook her head, but it wouldn't quiet its shouting. She took another step forward, both feet now on the road. The shouting got less. Walking forward until she was standing in the middle of the street, she noticed the feeling got stronger, but the shouting quietened.

Suddenly, a car, speeding down the road, caught her in it's headlights. Stunned, Rachel stood, unable to move from where she was rooted to the spot, unable to comprehend the sudden switch from deep darkness to dazzling light. The car was closer and closer with every second, not slowing. It wavered from side to side, not driving smooth and straight like it ought to have been. Rachel still couldn't move. The rational part of her brain told her that she should get the hell off the road, that the car was going to hit her, that the driver was probably drunk or high, that they couldn't see her, or didn't care, if they could. Her legs wouldn't move. Her hands clenched into fists, and she could feel her two day old grazes sting as they came into contact with the sweat on her palms. Ignoring the sting, she braced herself for impact.

And it hit her, but from the wrong direction, and much sooner than she expected. She went sprawling across the ground, the force from the impact sending her flying into the gutter. She was dimly aware of a pain in her chin and her hands and hips. She was also dimly aware of a something tangled in her legs. Ignoring the pain it caused her, she pushed herself up onto one elbow. The car sped past, driving as erratically as before, evidently not even seeing Rachel lying on the side of the road. The stench of alcohol wafted in its wake. Sparing a moment to shake her head in disbelief, she then turned her attention to the figure at her feet, and found herself shocked to a standstill for a second time that night.

One cheek resting on the potholed asphalt, arms and legs spread eagled, with hair as pink as ever, was Quinn Fabray in clothes so dark she seemed part of the road. As Rachel watched, Quinn stirred from her momentary unconsciousness. Groaning, she pulled herself into a sitting position, hoisting herself onto the kerb outside the run down church. She gave Rachel a wary smile.

"Hey Rachel," she said, meeting Rachel's eyes and then quickly looking away, staring out across the decrepit neighbourhood, her eyes as dark as the shadows all around them.

"You saved me," Rachel replied, realising how weak her words sounded, even as they left her mouth, "I mean, thank you. I don't doubt I would have died if that car hit me."

"I don't doubt it either. Lucky I was around to save your Broadway butt," Quinn said, her tone serious, but when she turned to face Rachel, the actress could see the smile that curved her mouth.

"Yes, lucky doesn't even begin to describe it. I can't thank you enough," Rachel sighed, "I heard you were in New York now."

"Really? I'm guessing Mark told you? That asshole. He promised not say anything to you when he went to see your show. What is it you're in again?" Quinn asked, looking to Rachel, who thought she saw something in the other girl's eyes, a knowing at the answer that was to come.

"The Phantom of the Opera. And you're right, it was Mark. I won't pretend it didn't surprise me. But I'm glad you're here, otherwise I'd be splattered all over the road right now," Rachel frowned, suppressing a shudder at the thought that her life could have ended a moment ago.

"Couldn't have had that. What would Broadway be without its Rachel Berry?"

"The same way it was before they had Rachel Berry," Rachel muttered sullenly, "but I appreciate the sentiment."

"Broadway could never be the same. No one ever is after meeting you," Quinn murmured, leaving Rachel speechless.

The two of them sat in silence, the conversation fizzled out. The fact that Quinn didn't elaborate on her being in New York was not lost on Rachel, but she knew better than to push. Quinn, unlike Finn, seemed to not have changed at all. If she wanted to tell Rachel about her life, she would, without any prompting questions from her. As it was, they didn't seem to have anything to say to each other. Ordinarily, Rachel would have been made uncomfortable by this, but with Quinn it was always different. She didn't have to say everything she was thinking or feeling to be understood, and it was the same with her and Quinn's thoughts and feelings, as though they had inherent ways of knowing.

The longer they sat there, the more Rachel felt she ought to leave. This walk, it had ended in the worst possible way. Not only had she almost been killed, she'd been saved by the very thing she'd been getting out of her apartment to avoid. She'd escaped thoughts of Quinn and her poem, only to run into her. Or, technically, run into by her. Rachel cleared her throat, trying to find the right way to bring up the poem.

"I'm sorry about the poem taped to your door," Quinn said, interrupting her thoughts and solving her problem. Rachel blinked at her in surprise.

"I - I just don't understand why. Why did you tape it to my door? You could have knocked and actually come in and we could have had a conversation, like normal people. We aren't teenagers anymore, Quinn. Sometimes we have to outgrow games."

"I know. But I wasn't ready to face you again after all these years. I just wasn't ready. If you hadn't stood in the middle of the damned road where that car was going to hit you, I would still be hiding in the shadows, watching you," she growled, gesturing to a lane that Rachel hadn't noticed before. "That's why I left you the New York map too, leading you to Central Park. I wasn't ready, and I thought you'd appreciate the adventure. You always were more adventurous than anyone ever gave you credit for."

"That was you?" Rachel exclaimed, though, realising that deep down, she had known all along.

"Guilty," Quinn shrugged, the ghost of a smile tugging at her lips. Rachel was overcome by simultaneous urges to both slap and kiss her.

"Why were you afraid of seeing me again? You know I would have loved to see you. I mean, I love seeing you again, but it would have been nicer if had been under different circumstances."

"Figured you didn't want exgirlfriends turning up at your door, especially ones who look like me, and ones you broke up with on a bad note."

"Oh, Quinn," Rachel breathed, "It doesn't matter. I never stopped lo- I never stopped feeling guilty. I would have preferred you turning up on my doorstep rather than meeting like this," she said quickly, trying to cover what was almost a slip of the tongue that could land her in trouble with Quinn. She wasn't going to jump into this so easily, not after all these years without so much as a whisper, not with Finn in the picture. Quinn just shrugged.

"Can I walk you home?"

Sensing that the discussion was over as far as Quinn was concerned, Rachel nodded, letting Quinn pull her to her feet. They walked side by side, close enough that their arms brushed. Rachel had to resist the urge to grab Quinn's hand, to remind herself how perfect the other girl's hand fit in hers.

"What are you doing in this part of the city anyway? It's not a place for someone like you," Quinn said, looking at her from the corner of her eye.

"What? And it's a place for you? What were _you_ doing here?"

"Fine. Don't tell me why you were in a place that could kill you in ways other than drunk drivers. Don't tell me why you were walking to that church as if you _knew_."

"Knew what? Quinn, you're not making any sense."

Quinn simply shook her head. Rachel wanted to growl. She'd forgotten how frustrating Quinn could be with all her secrets. Clamping her mouth shut, she strode forward, too annoyed to be walking side by side with the other girl. As if to irritate her further, Quinn caught up and evenly matched her pace within a matter of seconds. Fingernails bit into Rachel's palm, the only indication of her anger. Her arm shook with the effort it took to channel all her anger into that arm only. She resolutely refused to look at Quinn, keeping her eyes straight ahead. Quinn didn't push for conversation either.

So it was that they made their way back to Rachel's apartment complex. Traffic whirred past, a sound that Rachel never thought would be comforting, but after the silence of the falling apart neighbourhood, was. They stopped outside the entrance to the building. Headlights and tail lights blazed past, a dizzying swirl of red and white.

"This is me," Rachel muttered, crossing her arms over her chest. Quinn nodded.

"I know."

"Good night," Rachel nodded back, and turned her back, about to make her way into the building, when a thought stopped her. The questions she'd been biting back the whole walk back began to rise to the surface. She turned back to Quinn, anger cresting in her, then crashing down as she voiced her thoughts. "So were the gardenias from you too? And that ticket to whatever that event is, that was your way of taking me out on a date without actually asking? And that whole fucking set up with the lanterns? You thought that was _romantic_? Do you even realised how fucked up you are, Quinn?"

Quinn didn't seem surprised at the outburst. "Yes, the gardenias were from me. Secret love? Of course when I realised what the gardenia corsage I got at prom meant, I knew it wasn't from Finn. I knew it was you. I decided to return the favour. Yes, that ticket is to an event, a reading, actually, from the novel it's taken me four years to write. And yes, I was hoping you'd come and that's how we'd meet again, but obviously tonight's ruined that plan. And the lantern thing would have been romantic if you hadn't fallen into the ravine. I'm sorry that I thought it was a good idea. I'm sorry you didn't appreciate the effort that went into that. I had hoped that you would. And that's fine, now that you know that I set it up, I doubt you want to come. I'd hoped curiosity would make you come to that, just like it led you to Central Park in the dark. I can see that my efforts were wasted. Don't worry, I won't be making the same mistake again, considering how annoyed, angry and unimpressed it's made you," Quinn snapped, her own anger billowing to the fore. Rachel was taken aback by the attack, not used to seeing Quinn lose her cool in anger like she just had, but hid her surprise, clenching her jaw.

"I don't know who the hell you think you are, thinking that a few parlour tricks and scavenger hunts would get me to fall back into your arms like we never said goodbye. The past few years of my life have been the best so far, and you know what, you weren't there for a single one of them!" she cried in anger, and was surprised when Quinn took a step back, as if she'd been slapped.

"You don't think I know that? You don't think I know that you achieved your dreams and I wasn't there beside you, encouraging you, loving you, or just being there for you? You think I don't fucking know that, Rachel? You don't think I regret that? I would do anything to take back that screw up in high school! Anything! As long as it meant that I could have seen you through these past few years, becoming a Broadway star, living the dream that was just as important to me as it was to you."

"You…you," Rachel spluttered, unable to get her words out, all her years of theatre training failing to work with Quinn, just like they always had.

"But I guess this is another screw up and you don't want to see me again. Fine. Fucking fine. I should have learnt the first god damn time. Maybe I'll disappear. This is New York. People go missing all the fucking time. It's not like you'd notice anyway," Quinn said miserably, the anger in her voice ebbing away in her last statement. They stood there for one tense moment, every fibre in their bodies zinging with taught energy, on the verge of something - though neither knew what. Then Quinn turned on her heel and stalked away into the dark. Seeing her walk away, Rachel's body began to shake. This wasn't the way it was supposed to be. She called out after her, but Quinn didn't look back, let alone stop. With despair crushing her soul, Rachel watched Quinn slink around the corner, disappearing from view. The tears fell down her face, catching on the front of her shirt, leaving dark stains where they fell. She could barely move, the energy from her body drained, leaking into the New York City sidewalk.

How she made it back to her apartment, she never knew, but she collapsed onto her bed, shaking and clammy with sweat and tears. She curled up into a ball. She never knew that Quinn, rounding the corner of the building, threw her fists into its bricked side, fracturing the bones in her right hand, just as distraught by the outcome of their meeting as Rachel. No, instead, Rachel lay on her bed, imagining that Quinn didn't care, wishing that Quinn didn't care, that the words she said weren't real; she didn't want them to be real. She didn't want to think that she could have had Quinn all those past years, if only it weren't for their inability to reach out to each other. But the thought wouldn't leave her head.

Reaching out a shaking hand, she clutched the phone on her bedside table. Even as tears blurred her vision, she dialled a number, one she had revised until it was burned into her memory, that was a reflex path for her fingers. She didn't even pay attention as she did it. It was only when she brought the phone up to her ear and heard the calm, short rings of the line trying to connect that she wondered who she had dialled, whether it had been who she'd intended. When the line clicked and the person on the other end answered, she knew.

"Finn?" she whispered, her voice trembling and soft, "Finn, I need you."


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N: sorry for taking forever to update between chapters. Between writer's block and uni, it's hard. Thanks everyone who's been patient with me. You guys are all awesome.**

David sat in Rachel's living room, waiting for her while she brewed a pot of tea, their chosen drink of the day. His eyes flitted around the space, his brain sensing that there was something wrong, though it hadn't quite registered yet. The clock hung in the same space, ticking away, like it always did. The television stared at them with its blank screen. The couch smelt just the same. David's eyes, sliding over the bookshelf, did a double take. There, were he had grown used to seeing a small replica motorcycle, was an empty spot. He frowned at the lack of the ornament. He knew something was off about Rachel that night, the way she spoke her lines, the way she sang, as if the heartbreak was coming from somewhere more real this time, deeper inside herself than she'd ever revealed on stage. Squinting, he could see a sliver of a tiny tyre peeking out from behind a photo frame sporting a photo of Rachel and a young man, the one he'd met the other day in the alley, who thought he and Rachel were dating. Finn, he vaguely recollected, that's what the young man's name was. What was the bike doing there, behind that particular picture? What the hell did he miss?

Rachel shuffled back into the room with a tray laden with teapot, teacups and saucers, breaking David's thoughts. Or rather, shocking them into verbal existence. As soon as he saw her carrying the trays, he blurted out, "what's happened with Quinn that you didn't tell me about?"

Rachel sighed, as if she'd known that the question was coming, and pouring herself some of the tea, settled back into the couch with three of her fingers curled around the teacup's handle. She took a sip before answering.

"I ran into her the other day in a dodgy neighbourhood. Or rather, she ran into me. Literally. She bowled me over to save me being hit by a drunk driver," she explained, not meeting David's eye. But she could still see the incredulous look he was giving her, out of her periphery.

"And?"

"And, she walked me home, we argued and then she left. End of story. There's nothing else to say."

"There's plenty more to say, Rachel. Someone like Quinn doesn't just walk in and out of your life without you having any feelings about it, so don't pretend like this doesn't matter to you," David snapped, and then bit the inside of his cheek, realising that he might have given away more than he intended.

"What do you mean 'someone like Quinn'?" Rachel asked, her voice colouring slightly in anger that David thought he had a right to know more about her life than she was willing to tell him.

"Nothing, I didn't mean anything. Why did you argue?" he murmured, staring into the depths of his tea, not drinking it, but rubbing his thumb on the rim of the cup.

"David, don't lie to me. I couldn't take a lie from you. So what did you mean? Tell me!" Rachel insisted, ignoring his question.

"I mean that Quinn isn't just some stranger to you," he answered evasively.

"No, she's not, but that's still not what you meant. For god's sake, David, can't you just tell me what the hell it is you mean?"

"Someone like the love of your life!" he cried, needing Rachel to stop getting angry at him. They almost never fought, it was too painful. She was his best friend, he needed things to be ok between them, so if it meant speaking his mind to hold on to that, then that's what he would do.

Rachel blinked, taken aback. "What do you mean?" she whispered, her eyes wide and a brown so soft they almost looked like they were melting. Paint that, Dali, David briefly thought, staring straight into them. He looked away, the depth of her need to know reflected the ache in the pit of his stomach to tell her; but he couldn't do it looking her in the eye. Even close friends could overstep the mark, and he was terrified of taking the chance. He sighed.

"You're in love with her, and you have been since you were fifteen. That's why no one has ever come close to winning your heart since then, that's why you keep that little motorbike on your bookshelf, and even now that she's hurt you, you haven't brought yourself to throw it out, so you hid it, but it's still there. It's that little piece of her you can't let go. That's why, when you saw her friend, that guy in the alleyway, your heart stopped beating, because for a second, you thought your dreams were coming true, that she'd come to New York for you," he breathed, hoping he wasn't destroying their friendship beyond repair with his observations. Caution nudged him in the ribs, and Worry clamped a hand over his mouth. Rachel simply stared. Neither of them moved a muscle for a long moment. Then abruptly, without a single utterance, Rachel stood and pulled the replica motorcycle off the bookshelf. She held it in the palm of her hand, balancing it so that David could see it clearly.

"You're wrong," she said, and flung the metal ornament as hard as she could against the wall. The sound of it hitting the side of the room reverberated in David's chest, breaking his heart for Rachel, for Quinn, for what neither wanted to own up to feeling or wanting. The bike left an uneven dent in the wall, and a trickle of plaster rained down on the twisted piece of metal where it lay on the floor. "You're wrong," Rachel reiterated, more softly this time, "I have Finn now. I don't need to hold on to Quinn any longer."

David shook his head, staring at the remnants of the motorcycle. He should have been frustrated with her for not seeing what was so obvious to him, but he wasn't; he hadn't missed the catch in Rachel's voice, as soft as it had been, when she told him that he was wrong. Instead, he was left with a cold weight of sadness pressing down on his chest, weighing down his shoulders, making him slump forward and bury his face in his hands, as if shielding the room from his sight would change the way things were. After a moment, with a resigned sigh, he pushed himself off the couch, struggling to move his limbs, and picked up the broken ornament. Cradling it in his palms, like a cherished gift, he spared a glance for Rachel, who, though she tried to look defiant, shook slightly, her hands giving her away, but he let himself out of the apartment anyway, leaving Rachel to contemplate what she'd done, and what she really meant and felt. He couldn't be there if she was going to do rash things like throw objects against walls.

"I hope he treats you well enough for you not to regret this moment," he thought to himself as he let himself out of the building. Taking a few long strides to get away from the front door, his legs trembled slightly, and he had to lean against the building, the fabric on the back of his shirt catching in the minuscule grains of rock which made up the bricks the building was constructed from. He tipped his head back too, searching the night sky for answers, the way he imagined people from the days of old did. Only, in New York, there weren't any stars to look to for guidance, drowned out by the city's light pollution. And the moon, if there was one, was hiding behind some building or another, visible only to those who were fortunate enough to tower above the rest of the city. He sighed and turn his attention back to what was in front of him, an ordinary street, with yellow taxis weaving their way down the road, horns blaring at the rogue pedestrian who braved crossing where they weren't supposed to.

There, across the street, his eyes found the figure of a young woman, dressed head to toe in black, but for a shock of pink hair, marching to and fro in front of shop front, looking decidedly distressed. She walked as if she didn't know how to do anything else - five paces in one direction, then turning on her hell, five paces in the other, back and forth. David squinted. Yes, there, he wasn't imagining things, she had a long graze up one arm, and one of her hands was bandaged. The image clicked with something in his brain, and in an instant, he was gone, dodging traffic and earning more than his fair share of car horns from drivers. Even the girl looked up from her pacing to see him dashing across the street to her.

Making safely to the other side, despite the anger he'd caused with his inconsiderate, insane attempt at crossing the road, he leapt at the girl, grabbing her shoulders and dragging her into a patch of light to see her better. Hazel eyes stared at him with a mix of shock and anger. A second later, hands were shoving into his chest, pushing him away. He took a couple of steps back.

"Quinn Fabray?" he asked, causing the pink haired girl's eyes to widen considerably, one eyebrow cocked at him, incredulous, wary.

"And who the hell are you?" she retaliated.

"My name's David, I direct the play Rachel Berry's in at the moment, and I know all about you two. You shouldn't be here right now. If she sees you, she's going to freak out. I don't think she's ready to accept you back into her life. Trust me," he warned, gushing, the words tumbling out of his mouth almost as soon as they appeared in his mind. Quinn stared at him.

"And who the hell are you to tell me what the fuck I should be doing with my life? You think you can direct people's lives the same way you direct your plays? Guess again, buddy, you don't get a say in who I, or Rachel, or anybody, gets to see or do," Quinn growled, her unbandaged hand curling into a fist. But David didn't back off.

"She doesn't want to see you. I just came from up there, and right now, you walking in on her would be the worst thing that could happen," he insisted, but scoffing, Quinn started to move off. "You're not listening, why aren't you listening?" David muttered in annoyance under his breath, chasing after her. He stopped her just before she stepped off the kerb, spinning her around by his grip on her elbow. Anger flashed in her eyes at his action, until she saw what it was he was holding out to her in the palm of his free hand. Reaching out the forefinger of her uninjured hand, she stroked the twisted metal of the motorcycle that Rachel had flung at the wall.

"This is exactly how my bike looked when I ran it into a tree in senior year," she breathed, stroking it again, "it's even the exact model. Where did you get this?"

"Rachel threw it at the wall five minutes ago."

"What? Why would Rachel have something like this? It's not at all to her style," Quinn frowned, catching David's eye. He raised his eyebrows at her in disbelief.

"You can't guess?"

Quinn's frown softened, and she nodded, a small smile threatening to overtake her lips. She nodded.

"I can guess."

"What do you mean when you ran it into a tree in twelfth grade? What's wrong with you? It was deliberate? You could have died!" David began, questioning on the sentence which had disturbed him a moment before.

"What do you mean Rachel threw it against her wall? Why would she do something like that?"

"I asked first," David prodded.

"I was angry, drunk, depressed and stupid. Now answer the question," Quinn growled.

"She was angry, confused and rash. Was it over Rachel?" David shot back.

"Was it over me?"

"Yes."

"Yes."

The two of them stared at each other for a long moment. David feared that Quinn might bolt across the road and into the mess that was Rachel's life anyway, despite his warning and revelation. Instead, she stepped back further from the kerb, away from the cars which rushed by. Sighing, she jerked her head to indicate that they should walk down the street, so David fell into step beside her, keeping pace easily with her fast strides, though she was slightly taller than he. With unerring confidence and an never faltering stride, she led him along the New York sidewalk, bringing him to a small, dingy diner, the sign above its door flickering and giving off an electrical buzz. David eyed the place dubiously, but followed her in. They took a seat in a booth with what might have been red leather upholstery, but which had since faded and been dirtied into a rusty brown. It reminded David of dried blood.

"So, how do I get her back?" Quinn asked, the first words she'd spoken to him since he'd told her that the thought of her made Rachel angry enough to throw a replica of Quinn's bike at the wall of her apartment.

A waitress came to take their orders, bored looking, with wisps of hair clinging to the side of her face. Quinn barely glanced at her, ordering a plate of chips. David replied with the same answer after a moment's hesitation. The waitress shuffled off, completely despondent, as though she'd rather be anywhere else in the world. David couldn't blame her, in a place like this, open late nights, but with barely any hint of a customer, apart from himself and the pink haired young woman sitting across from him.

"Stop sending her X-marked maps of New York?" he haltingly responded. Quinn waved the notion away.

"I know, Rachel and I already discussed that. What else?"

"What do you mean you already discussed it? Is that what the two of you fought about?" David asked, still not knowing the details of that night.

"Of a sort. Mostly it was pent up anger that neither of us reunited the way we wanted to be reunited, I think. It wasn't the touching of kindred spirits, it was more like stepping on a landmine. We both lost control of ourselves. I might have let her think that I wasn't going to be in her life anymore, but I don't want that. I want back in. I've wanted back in the second I knew I was out, all those years ago," Quinn confessed, looking down at her hands, which were knotted on the table top. David stared at them too, noticing the dirty fingernails and wondering just what it was that Quinn was doing with her life, and tried to think of a constructive thing to say.

The waitress then reappeared, holding a plate of chips in each hand. She plonked them unceremoniously on the table.

"Cutlery and ketchup's over there if you want any," she said, waving in a vague direction somewhere behind her, "enjoy your meal."

To give himself more time to think over what he ought to say, David bit into one of the greasy chips, nearly gagging when its heat burnt his tongue. He forced himself to swallow, feeling the hot potato scalding his insides as it travelled to his stomach.

"Easy there, Tantalus, the food isn't going away. You can wait a second till it cools down some," chuckled Quinn, amused as she watched him down a glass of water desperately.

"You are possibly the most peculiar person I've ever met," David managed to choke after downing a second glass, "and I've met a lot of odd people. Not many of them would know who Tantalus was though."

"Yes, well, you don't come to write a novel by knowing nothing about literature and mythology."

"You've written a novel? Congratulations! I don't doubt that it was a monumental task," David said, nodding his approval. Quinn shook her head.

"Monumental doesn't even begin to cover it. It took me four years."

"What's it about?"

"Rachel," came the reply, surprising David, "but then, everything's about Rachel. I suppose, if you want the blurb, then it's about a young woman who struggles to fulfill her dreams, only to find that when she does, she's dissatisfied anyway, because it hasn't filled the gaping hole in her the way she thought it would. It took a lot more dedication and patience than I've got," Quinn joked. David cleared his throat.

"Sounds like an interesting book. Have you sent Rachel a copy? She hasn't mentioned it, but she doesn't tell me everything."

"I invited her to a reading, actually. That's what the whole affair with the New York map was, but I don't think the journey to the ticket appealed very much to her. It's a ticket only event, and as a participant, I got five free tickets, so I tried to give her one and make an adventure out of it, considering I've heard that Rachel has found that she's quite adventurous, but it didn't go exactly as planned," confessed Quinn, popping a chip into her mouth and sighing, staring out the window into the dark street, where the iconic yellow taxis continued to roar past.

"I think she'd enjoy hearing you read your book," David replied earnestly, "if you could get her to go. She does enjoy those kinds of private, intimate events, but isn't afforded the luxury of going to them very often because they conflict with performance times."

"Yes, well, I think that one's gone out the window," Quinn muttered, still looking through the glass which separated them from the city, "after our fallout the other night, I'm certain she wouldn't come within a twenty mile radius of the place. You could come, if you like, I still have four tickets to give," she added, turning to face him, then rummaged around in the little bag she'd been carrying with her. Pulling a ticket out, she handed it to him.

"Imaginative Nights," he read aloud, "that's not a very imaginative title."

"No, it's not," Quinn laughed, "if it were up to me, it would have been called A Gathering of Souls, or something of the like. As it is, it wasn't up to me, so Imaginative Nights it's been called. I'm reading from my novel, there'll be a short film, some poetry readings, perhaps a short play," she said, her eyes gleaming as she saw David's face light up with interest at the word 'play'. "Do you think you'd like to come?"

"Sure. Sounds like it could be a great night," David smiled. "Now, back to your problem of Rachel."

"How do you solve a problem like Rachel Berry?" Quinn softly sang, then shrugged nonchalantly at David's incredulous look. "Sorry, it's the wrong meter for the line, but I couldn't resist."

David blinked. "Anyway," he continued, "I think I should try convince her to come to the reading. I could say that I bought a ticket and ask if she wanted to come. I could offer to buy her a ticket. She might say yes if I pretend I don't know you're going to be there."

"But she'll know I'm there," Quinn said dubiously, "I don't think that would work."

Sitting there in that small, old diner, the two of them conspired, finishing their plates of chips and then following them with orders of hamburgers to fuel them for the night. Ideas were passed back and forth, from "chance" meetings, to plots of trickery, but nothing seemed to fit right with the two of them. Eventually, David leaned back into the leather of the seat, growling in frustration.

"Why don't you just come to the play?" he asked, only half meaning it. Quinn blinked and cocked her head to one side.

"That's a great idea, actually. What if I wait for her in her dressing room instead of sitting in the audience though this time? She couldn't run that way, and she and I need to have an honest talk, not just an argument. And you could mediate for us. David, please, I need you to agree to this. I don't have any other ideas," Quinn pleaded, seeing the doubtful look on David's face. Still, he hesitated.

"You know there's that Finn boy in the picture now too. You mustn't forget him," he began.

"I don't care. He's been in the way before, and that wasn't a problem then, I doubt it will be a problem now. Besides, at this point, she and I just need to talk." Quinn was adamant.

"I don't know, Rae's been pretty happy with him. I don't think he's the same guy you think he is," David trailed off.

"One problem at a time," Quinn replied, and then smiled, "did you just called her 'Rae'?" David shrugged.

"I do it all the time."

"I like it. I might just have to steal that from you," she smirked. David shrugged again. "So you'll let us do this? Please?"

David looked out the window this time, pondering. It was going to be a highly charged, emotional confrontation, was he sure he should be there? Was he sure he could even have it in a place so public as a theatre? And yet, even as he thought it, he remembered the mangled motorcycle, the look on Rachel's face when she told him he was wrong, the utter lie of it, the desperation that she wanted it to be true. Emotional damage could only be healed by an emotional meeting, he realised. And Quinn and Rachel were each other's no matter who else might come along, even if neither of them knew it. Well, it seemed Quinn knew it, but it was a matter of convincing Rachel, of getting her to acknowledge the truth. So with a sigh, he nodded, looking back at Quinn, who grinned from ear to ear.

"And what do you mean 'instead of sitting in the audience this time'?" he asked, remembering the sentence he'd forgot to question earlier. Quinn grinned even wider.

"You honestly don't think that I wouldn't come see Rachel on Broadway, did you?" she chuckled mischievously, "I've seen at least one performance a week since the play opened."


	19. Chapter 19

**A/N: I've had this on my hard drive for months and I have no idea why I didn't upload it sooner. I commend anyone who's been patient and is actually going to read this, despite the three month lack of updates. I'm sorry for taking so long!**

The door creaked open and Rachel edged into the room, her face glowing in the aftermath of her performance. She had a light smile playing on her lips and a faraway look in her eyes. Quinn couldn't help but smile a little too at the expression on the other woman's face. But when Rachel saw her, sitting in a rickety chair in front of her vanity, she looked as if she'd been slapped. The smile dropped away, like a pattern in the sand being washed away by a wave, and her whole body went rigid, cautious.

"Quinn," she said slowly, as if testing out the sound of the name on her tongue.

"Rachel," Quinn nodded back.

"It's time a proper conversation happened," David said, pushing off from the wall against which he had been leaning. Rachel raised her eyebrows and leant against the edge of her vanity, the back of three Rachel Berrys reflected in the mirrors. She made a gesture with her hands, encouraging David to continue. He opened his mouth to speak.

"I wanted to apologise," Quinn jumped in, cutting off whatever words David was about to say. "I reacted badly the other night, and every other night for the past eight years, for that matter, and I'm sorry. You're not the caged dreamer anymore, you're a Broadway star, but you're a lot more than that, and you always will be. I'm sorry that for a second there, I forgot that we weren't in high school anymore, and that you and I aren't the same people anymore. You're not trapped in your cage of insecurities, and I'm not trapped in mine either. We've got other things now. I won't make that mistake again. But I'd still like you to use the ticket I made you trek through Central Park to find. I'd love for you to be at my reading, so I can have a chance of making up the past eight years."

Rachel stared at Quinn, keeping her face impassive. Part of her wanted to slap the other woman for daring to come into her dressing room, her _personal space_, and demand forgiveness. The other part of her wanted to say yes. That part was howling her agreement, strangling into silence any other ideas which tried to surface and combat it. But Rachel was still quiet; she didn't want to so readily agree.

"Why should I? An apology doesn't make up everything you've ever done to me Quinn; it doesn't even come close. It seems you have learnt, but how I do know that's not a lie? How do I know that you aren't just inventing things to get me to agree to your request? You're right, I am a Broadway star. A _star_, Quinn, not some low life tramp who lives on the streets, starving for any scrap of attention or affection someone might be willing to give them, especially not if that someone is a person who, one day, could treat you worse than a piece of garbage."

"Wow, Rae, that was uncalled for," David said, stepping forward, but Quinn waved him away gently, shaking her head.

"It's ok, Dave, she has a point. And Rachel, you aren't going to know unless you give me another chance. I don't deserve it, I know, but I was hoping to appeal to the forgiving girl in you, the one who was always there for me before, even when there were bigger things happening. I'm trying to fix the broken pieces here, Rae, but I can't do that if you're not willing to let things fall back together."

"Firstly, don't you dare presume that you can call me 'Rae'. Just because David has let you be the only person allowed to call him 'Dave' doesn't mean that familiarity extends to me. Secondly, you killed that forgiving girl, Quinn. You broke her heart and ground it into dust; there aren't any pieces left to be put back together," anger came flooding back into Rachel at the sound of David's nickname for her coming from Quinn's lips, and with it, came the anger she'd spent eight years hoarding, "You may as well have put a gun to her head and pulled the trigger, so don't strut back into my life and pretend that there is something to fix, because there is absolutely nothing left of that life, or that person. So, no, I'm sorry, I'm afraid I'm declining your invitation. I won't be coming to your reading, and wouldn't if my life depended on it."

With a huff, she crossed her arms, and glared at Quinn, her brown eyes dark with the tempest of her anger. Quinn stared at her, the way she remembered her teenage self doing, all those years ago, when she was trying to seem cool, calm and collected in a situation which distressed her beyond belief. She hoped it was working. Rachel gestured with her head towards the door and said "well?", dismissing Quinn and David. Quinn felt David's hand on her elbow, advising her to move. She complied, shuffling out of the cramped room and out of the slowly darkening theatre, into the alleyway, where only a couple of people waiting with the hopes of seeing a Broadway star in the flesh. They sighed in disappointment when she and David came through the door. The two of them walked a little way down the alley, until Quinn stopped them, collapsing her back against the wall of the theatre and slamming the back of her head against the bricks.

"Don't hurt yourself, honey. You can't try to get Rae back from a hospital bed if she won't come and see you," David said gently, putting his hand behind Quinn's head and pulling it forward from the wall until they were eye to eye. "She will come around. She's just being her typical stubborn Berry self. You should know that better than anyone. She does love you, I know it, she's just too scared to let herself see it."

"How do you know? How could you possibly know that if I don't know that? I used to be able to look at her and just know. Now, it's like looking into a black hole; I get nothing. How can I make her fall in love with me again when I don't even know the first thing about what she's feeling?"

"That's not true," David smiled sadly, "you know her better than anyone else; no one is ever going to know her the way you do. You've fallen out of practice a little, but that's ok. It's like those people who haven't ridden a bike in decades, then one day, decide they're going to start again. It's awkward at first, and they wobble as they try to get their balance, but soon enough, it all comes back, and they're as confident and in tune with their bike as they used to be. You haven't forgotten, Quinn, it just takes a bit of remembering."

Quinn sighed, and slid down the wall until she was sitting on the ground. She tilted her head back until she could see the sky - the almost purplish sky with no stars; she missed the stars. If she went out of Lima a few miles further than the House of Chaos, and she stopped her bike somewhere by the side of the road and decided to look up, she could see the stars perfectly, the whole sky dusted with them, the Milky Way making a jagged, dangerous, beautiful rift down the middle of the sky. And she used to feel so close to the rest of the universe then, like she could reach up and touch it, and everyone, every being, every blade of grass, every grain of sand, would feel the brush of her finger and not feel as alone as they had a moment before. She'd always wanted to take Rachel out to see that and to feel it too. But they were both stuck here in New York, where the tiny slivers of sky between buildings made her feel dirty and small and mangled, and more lost than ever. She felt like she was searching for a lost part of herself that was never going to be found. With both hands tangled into her pink hair, she looked down at the ground, flecked with cigarette butts and the wrappers of various candy bars. A plastic bag was caught against pole, and made a rustling sound every time a draught of wind slithered through the alleyway.

"Maybe it's time to give up," she said softly. Eyes closed, she felt David sit down next to her, their shoulders rubbing. The point of contact comforted her.

"It's never time to give up. Don't be afraid to fight the hard battles, honey. And I guarantee you, Rachel Berry is the hardest battle you're ever going to have to fight. But she's worth it, and you know it, which is why you're not really going to give up. I may not know you very well, Quinn, but I can see it, the same way I see Rachel struggling not to break down and just give herself to you all over again. She wants to, but she wants security this time too. It's not teenage love anymore; she wants a show of commitment, and she's terrified of the possibility of losing you again," he explained, gently pulling out her hands from her hair, disentangling the pink strands from her fingers.

"She doesn't need me."

"Yes she does. You just have to remind her of who you are. Remember how you wooed her the first time, remember how she fell in love with you, and do it again, but adjust it enough to account for the fact you've both grown up since then."

"I used to write poems on walls," Quinn murmured, wiping her nose on the back of her hand, "that's how she fell in love with me. She didn't even know it was me, she just fell in love with the words, and some person called Errant."

"Try it again. Try wooing her with your words again."

"I can't. I don't know if I have it in me anymore," she whispered.

"Oh, you do," David smiled, nudging her lightly with his elbow, "you just have to remember. A poet's soul never dies. Just think, what did you tell yourself in all those intervening years before you saw Rachel again. What did you whisper every night before you dreamt? What kept you sane?"

"There's always New York," Quinn quietly replied, half speaking to herself. David smiled again. She turned to face him, "I used to say 'there's always New York' because I believed if there was one place we'd fall in love again, it would be here."

"Well you're here now, Quinn Fabray. Make it happen."

Quinn said nothing, resting her chin on her knees, looking out across the alleyway. On the opposite wall were scribbles of graffiti, quickly scrawled tags in black paint, almost blending into the wall; they stirred up a sense of longing within her gut. She hadn't written on an unsanctioned surface in such a long time, she could barely remember how to get away with it; oh, but she remembered the exhilaration, the freedom which zinged from the tips of her fingers right through her body, setting every nervous fibre on fire. She remembered streaking away from her site of vandalism, fighting off giggles, and swelling with pride. The aching for it sunk in her chest like a ton of bricks. Suddenly, her fingers itched. Curling them into a ball, she fought the urge; it would be foolish, it would be reckless, it would be the wrong way of winning back Rachel. Or would it? Errant was the person who broke them, all those years ago, so maybe Errant was supposed to be the person to glue them back together. Quinn ran a hand through her already dishevelled pink hair, making it stick out in all sorts of otherwise impossible directions.

She would need help. She would need a plan. She would need to access that part of her that she'd locked away a long time ago because of what it had done. Her mind ticked over, thinking, accessing in her head the resources she'd need and who she'd get them from. Dark alleyways and half falling down warehouses in the rickety suburbs of New York came to mind, forcing goosebumps to race down her arms, and raise the hairs on the back of her neck. Squaring her shoulders, she did not back down from the thought. They weren't dirty places with illicit behaviour. Taking a moment to think it over, she conceded that yes, they were dirty places with illicit behaviour occurring there, but they weren't the type that would normally spring to mind. There was certainly no manufacture of drugs happening, and no mistreatment of anyone. The warehouses she thought of were the residencies of artists who painted out of a spray can instead of with a brush, who were forced to the outskirts of society for their 'vandalism'. She hadn't been there in months, she realised, guilt spreading from the pit of her stomach to her chest, where it collided painfully with the painfully sharp ache of wanting to re-enter the community she'd only tentatively trod in.

Turning her head, she found David looking at her with an arched eyebrow. She bit her lip and tugged lightly at the nose ring she'd gotten from a seedy looking man who tried to feel her up, when she was back in high school. It was a big plan, and it was going to be a big operation. Rachel once said that she'd hated ostentatiousness, but ostentatious is what Quinn was going to be to win her back. If she didn't push, then Rachel was going to fall back into the abyss, the void that was their time without each other; seeing her on the edge, Quinn couldn't imagine letting go, not when the possibility that she might be pulled back into her life was so close. This time she wasn't going to be small, she was going to be big. Rachel wasn't going to be able to help but see her, see Errant, see all the things which proved that they ought to be together.

Doubt gnawed at her. What if she estranged Rachel even further? Could she live with the consequence? Biting her lip, she thought about it further. What if she did give up? What kind of life would she be going back to? The same life she had lived for the past eight years - not the worst kind of life, but not the life she'd hoped she'd be living; she'd only made it through the last years by harboring that small hope in her chest that she and Rachel would be together again. In losing Rachel, she would lose her incentive to live. She recalled Lima after Rachel had left for New York, she remembered not being able to see a way out of her situation, she remembered one night, riding her motorcycle out of Lima, towards anywhere, how the weight of the hopelessness gripped her chest, how her arms angled the bike towards a tree just off the side of the road, how she flooded with relief, knowing that if she hit the tree, she might not wake up the next day, and it would all be over; she wouldn't miss Rachel anymore, and Rachel wouldn't even know that Quinn wasn't in the world anymore. A part of her had wanted to think that Rachel wouldn't even care, but she knew better, which is why, when she woke up the next day, nestled in a hospital bed with countless tubes feeding into her, she was glad that she'd survived. She awoke, she was glad that she'd absolved Rachel of any guilt the girl would have definitely felt.

But she couldn't slide back into that depression. The thought of it sent shivers running up and down her spine and filled her with a cold dread. Never again, she couldn't do that ever again. She'd almost taken her own life once, and she couldn't do that again, not when afterwards she realised how much she would have missed if she'd died that night. It took almost a year of physical therapy, but she'd gotten back to her old life, and now, with a chance of having Rachel permanently back in her life, she wasn't going to mess up her chance. She'd lost everything before. She wasn't about to risk it again.

With that thought, she pushed aside her ostentatious plan. It wouldn't do to cover every inch of New York City in graffiti pleading for Rachel to give her another chance. Rachel didn't like being forced to do things; she would have to be gently persuaded. Quinn looked up at the sliver of sky between the buildings, and sighed. It didn't give her even the slightest hint of encouragement. David placed a hand on her arm.

"What's the plan?"

"I don't think I have one," Quinn replied. "Just, not to lose her again, but I have no idea how to do it."

"What about Errant?"

"Errant is what fucked up our relationship in the first place. I don't know if that's the best way to go about winning Rachel over. And there's Finn fucking Hudson in the way now too, and she seems happy with him, and there's no way he is going to just giver her up for her to be with me. He was furious when she broke up with him in high school for me. He wouldn't suffer the insult again."

"Hm. I'll talk to her. All you need is one chance. She'll fall in love with you all over again, I know it. Whatever you do, honey, don't give up," David said, patting her arm. She smiled at him. Who would have guessed that she'd make an ally so quickly?

"You know, I sent her a box, well actually, I got a friend to give her the box just before she left for New York, and in it was a letter. If she'd wanted to reach out to me and pick up where we left off, she could have. She had every chance in the last eight years to do it. Part of me thinks that she really doesn't want to be with me again, that's why I never heard a word from her. And that wasn't all that was in the box. I gave her diaries, I have her photos, I gave her pieces of writing, all which were inspired by her. It was my way of proving to her how much she meant to me, how much I loved her, but she didn't even give a word of reply. I wonder if she ever kept it, or whether she threw the whole thing out as soon as she realised that it was from me. I wouldn't blame her, but it would be a shame; the box was given to me by my grandmother, a family heirloom. It took a lot to part with it, but I knew it was for a good cause," Quinn said, trailing off.

"You gave it to her knowing that there was a chance she might dump it in the garbage? Even though it was so precious to you? That was brave of you."

Quinn shrugged. "Like I said, Rachel is worth it. She was and always will be worth the risk."

"Does she know that?"

"She should. Maybe she chooses to ignore it, but she should know it."

"Remind her," David urged gently.

Quinn stared back at him with hard eyes. "I will."


	20. Chapter 20

Quinn rolled back the metal door, her biceps and shoulder straining with the weight, despite the wheels of the door being well oiled. That in itself was a relief; in the months since she'd been in this part of town, anything might have happened - the people she sought could have left. But stepping into the sunlight streaming through the open door and facing the faces with tight knit eyebrows as they looked with a mixture of curiosity and fear at the unannounced presence, she saw that no, they were definitely still there. And after a heartbeat of no recognition, their faces broke into white tooth smiles and a welcoming cheer.

"Well, if it isn't our errant little ray of pink sunshine," one of the young men exclaimed, putting a pain stained arm around her shoulders and leading her into the room and the greetings of the other people lounging on well worn couches picked up off the side of the road during clean outs. Almost everyone wore a smile and held a can of beer. Someone immediately pushed one into Quinn's hands but she was engulfed in a hug before she had a chance to thank them.

"I missed you!" squealed a high pitched female voice into her neck. Quinn patted the girl's back, echoing the sentiment.

"I know, I know, I'm sorry Arianna, it's been a while," she said, pulling back from the blonde haired girl. Green eyes stared back forgivingly.

"A while? Yeah could say that, I guess. Five months counts as 'a while' I suppose," laughed a man in his early thirties with a two day beard.

"Well things don't pay for themselves you know. I had to get a job," teased Quinn, sitting down on the couch where someone had made room for her.

"Ah, feeding the ever hungry beast of capitalism, I understand," the man nodded solemnly, and then laughed again.

"Oh, shut up Ginger," shot Arianna, though not with venom. Ginger put his hands up in surrender, sitting himself back down on his stolen bar stool. How one stole a bar stool, Quinn had never found out, but he had managed it - according to his story, anyway. She looked around the warehouse, familiar to her, but it had been so long that it also looked foreign. There was the usual paint smell lingering in the air. On the wall to her right a huge piece took up the wall, a face, in black and white, dripping white paint from the eyes, and surrounded in blue wisps of energy, as though she were some kind of mythical sylph. It was beautiful and eerie at the same time; a source of fear as well as an idol for admiration. With a jolt, Quinn realised that it was Arianna, staring out from the wall with blank eyes. She shot the girl a look, and she, having watched Quinn's face dawn with comprehension, wiggled her eyebrows at her. Ginger too, had noticed.

"She finally agreed to let me paint her," he said, a tint of pride colouring his voice. Arianna shrugged.

"Bound to happen eventually, with all his wheedling away at me," she muttered. Laughs fluttered around the small group. She blushed. Quinn laughed too, some part of her happy that the two of them had started to get themselves together and move in the direction they both wanted but neither of them had wanted to admit.

She looked around again, at the other side, where the entire wall was covered with photographs of different sizes, some polaroids, some regular sized photos, some bigger, some framed, some torn in places. All were photos of graffiti and street art. Quinn knew that if she was to pick any of them up, there would be a date neatly written on the back, and a location, as specific as possible. Her heart fluttered. This was her element, this is what she missed, what she had longed for in her heart, the emptiness which beat next to her longing for Rachel. Working forty hours a week in a run down, grubby supermarket downtown wasn't fulfilling her soul's desires, though it only just filled her pockets with much needed money.

Pushing herself up off the couch, she wandered over to the wall, sipping out of her beer can, drinking in the images more than the bitter liquid. There were some she'd seen hundreds of times before, and she greeted them with a faint smile, like old friends, and the new ones which had appeared during her absence she appraised with her eyes and welcomed to the family of photos on the wall. There were pieces she recognised, pieces she had never seen, and pieces which had been there, but were now erased, either by the cold clinical hand of the government, or by the colourful artwork of another. A sadness rolled through her insides, and she smiled a sad smile, because that was the only way it could be expressed. Mentally she shrugged. This was the nature of street art, of life - its transience - there only for a short while before never existing again but as vague memories and full colour photographs.

Someone walked up and stood beside her, also looking at the wall. "It's scary, isn't it? how fast they come and they go," he said, scratching as his blonde stubble. Quinn nodded. "I miss seeing your new ones up there, you know," he continued, smiling at her.

"I've been feeling a lack of inspiration lately," she murmured. His forehead creased, eyes softened by pity.

"I hope being back here means you've arrived as some kind of inspiration," he smiled, "although, I had hoped you'd come back to accept my proposal of a date," he nudged her with his shoulder.

"Still gay, D," Quinn rolled her eyes at the young man. He made a show of looking disappointed.

"Ah, my wounded heart. Alas, I shall find someone else."

"Yep, you will. Once you give up being a jerk, I'm sure all the ladies will fall at your feet," Quinn punched him playfully in the shoulder.

"Dean, quit bugging Quinn!" called Arianna from the couches. He turned to her, all innocence. She poked her tongue out at him. Quinn laughed, heartily this time. These guys were her family, and she'd almost forgotten what it was like to be around them. She missed it. She was glad she was back. And she was mighty sorry that she hadn't been around in five months. She and Dean walked back to the couch, collapsing next to each other.

"So, what's up, Quinnie? Decided to start work on some big project that you need your bros for? Or just popping in for a visit for old time's sake?" Ginger asked. She took another swig from her can.

"A bit of both," she replied after swallowing. "Remember that girl I was in love with in high school and we broke up, and I've been pining for ever since? I've decided it's time to win her back."

"Hear, hear!" exclaimed Dean, raising his beer and clinking it against Quinn's. "Congratulations. If I can't have you, at least some lucky lady will."

"Yeah, well, she doesn't want me at the moment," she answered sullenly, "which is why I have to win her back. I want to do it as a street art project. If I dedicate beautiful art around the city to her, surely she can't refuse me again?"

Ginger inclined his head and shrugged one shoulder, as if to say 'it's worth a shot'. Arianna smiled in compassion and Dean nodded vigorously. Relief flooded Quinn. She knew she would have their support, but it was nice to see them confirm it, like a weight was lifted off her chest, and she could breathe a little easier. She still didn't know the whole plan, despite the fact she'd lain awake for a couple of nights thinking about it, over and over, the thoughts spiralling out of control in her foggy mind. Nothing came, but vague ideas that she tried to grab hold of, which melted into the back of her mind as soon as her consciousness brushed against them.

"So, what's the plan, my dear?" asked Dean.

"I don't know yet, D. I was hoping you guys would have some ideas," she said hopefully. Ginger chuckled.

"Yeah, maybe, but it depends on what you want us to say or do. It has to come from your heart, or else she's never going to buy it. If you love this girl, you gotta show her, Quinnie. There's no use in us doing it for you."

"You're right," she sighed. She looked across the warehouse, it's vast emptiness smelling like paint and beer and sweat, curtained off into little areas for where Ginger slept and bathed and lived when he wasn't painting. The sweet familiarity of it all sent her reeling, like somebody had peeled back a curtain in her mind, to reveal the inner sanctum where her soul lived. Maybe there really was something about the warehouse which channelled creativity, because half formed images and tendrils of ideas because to flood her mind. She skipped over the workstation, where lay a cluster of paints and brushes, where Ginger and his crew planned their large scale works. Quinn pulled the tiny moleskine she always carried around with her from her back pocket and threw it onto the paint stained desk. Flipping to a blank page, she grabbed a pen and started etching a drawing with ink into the paper. Quick and rough, it began to take shape across the whiteness. Her hands, going so long without holding a pen over the small notebook, settled into the process as if she had never stopped.

The other three stalked up behind her and stared with curiosity over her shoulder as she worked. They remained quiet, and Quinn, so entranced in her work, didn't even notice their bated breath as they watched. Quickly, she flipped the top off a marker and began colouring the outline of her creation. Lines were formed, then gone over, again and again, layers on top of layers of colour, creating a marvel of a work in miniature, rough though it was. When she was done, Quinn cocked her head to the side, as if considering whether it really was finished. With an almost imperceptible movement, she nodded, and signed the bottom right corner with a flourish - but not with her name, no, Errant was back.

She stepped back, ignoring the ache in her shoulders from being hunched over the workstation. Her three friends filled the gap, staring at the finished piece. Ginger took the small notebook in his hand, and cradled the sketch of the piece, as though it were a bar of gold. Arianna ran a finger over the double page spread. Dean grinned. All three turned back to her.

"Nice to see you back, Errant," Ginger murmured. She grinned and clapped him on the shoulder.

"I wasn't really gone. Just hibernating."

"And this is amazing!" Dean proclaimed, grabbing the notebook and holding up so that it was framed against the wall which hung the photographs. Quinn smiled in pride. It wasn't as good as it would look when it was splayed across a massive brick wall, but it was good.

Arianna pulled an expensive camera from where it was lying on the couch and snapped a photo of Dean holding the moleskine up, the sunlight streaming down so it caught the book in the light and cast him in shadow, though it reflected hot pink and bright off Quinn's hair.

She put the camera down and ran the tip of her finger down the drawing again. It was of a woman's torso in black and white, strands of pink hair hanging over the shoulders, with a deep gash in her chest, bleeding colours left and right, which formed the faces of another. What was remarkable was that they were all the same person, from different angles, displaying different emotions, some in shadow, some as a front on portrait - but all the same woman. All of them Rachel Berry.

It was in that moment that the three street artists looked at their long absent friend and realised just how much the girl bleeding from her chest meant to her. Not only could she draw Rachel from memory, but she could show her expressing various emotions. No one with a passing fancy could have paid enough attention to be able to imitate such nuances of expression. Rachel really was bleeding from Quinn's chest; the only different between the proposed piece and reality was that in reality, she bled out as beautiful art.

**A/N: it's been a hell of a long time, but I hope this didn't disappoint. It's slow going, but it's going. Reviews or suggestions are more than welcome :)**


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